moonlitstoriess

[moonlitstoriess]

Crafted by Flame- Initial Azriel, eventual Eris x fem!reader (2/2)

Summary: Y/N is a quiet but skilled healer in Velaris, known for tending wounds both physical and emotional. When Azriel shows up bloodied and silent after a mission, their connection begins in the soft hush of her clinic, built on shared pain, slow trust, and unspoken longing. But as she gives more of herself to him, his silence becomes a wall she can't break through, until love turns to ache and she's forced to walk away before it destroys her.

Warnings: angst, mentions of injuries, happy end

Part 1 here

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Y/N blinked.

Her shop door was wide open, sunlight cutting over polished boots and layered crimson. The not-so-stranger stood with one arm cradled at his side, his hair a tousled halo of flame, flanked by three towering guards in Autumn Court armour.

She'd seen High Fae before. Quiet travelers. Couriers. The high lord and lady themselves.

But this?

This felt...wrong.

Wrong, because her body reacted before her mind could. Her pulse was already stuttering. Her hands already damp.

"What- " she said, trying to force the steadiness into her voice. "What is this?"

The guards stepped forward slightly, too slightly, like they were trained to do it without threatening. But it still felt like a threat. Her shop was tiny, intimate. The scent of herbs and and lavender now had to share the air with the scent of ash and command.

Eris tilted his head. "Oh, that. Apologies."

Y/N's eyes dropped instinctively to his left forearm. His sleeve was soaked through. But worse than the blood was the smell--rot, infection. Whatever had caused the wound had been left unchecked for too long.

"Tell them to leave," she said, voice low.

Eris studied her, really studied her, then gave a lazy flick of his fingers over his shoulder.

"Out."

One word. That's all it took. The guards, without a whisper, turned and stepped out the door.

He waited until they were gone to speak again.

"You're shaking," he said, not unkindly. "Didn't peg you for the nervous type."

She clenched her jaw. "You show up bleeding in my shop, with armed guards, call yourself a prince and expect me not to be- "

"Worried for me?" he said with a grin.

"Worried for me," she snapped.

That seemed to surprise him. His brows lifted slightly--amused, almost impressed. She took a deep breath, wiping her palms on her apron, then pointed to the bench near the window.

"Sit," she muttered. "Let me see your injury."

He obeyed without a word, which was somehow more unsettling than if he'd protested. She crouched before him, untied the laces at his forearm and peeled back the soaked linen.

She hissed through her teeth.

The wound wasn't just bad. It was angry--red, hot with dark veins spidering out beneath the skin. It seems like the thin line of dried blood he showed earlier was just the part that wasn't under his tunic.

"A simple salve won't fix this," she muttered.

"I figured," he replied, eyes never leaving her face.

"I'll need to clean it. Then you will need something stronger. Maybe something from the Spring traders."

"Is that a recommendation or a warning?"

She looked up sharply. "Both."

He smiled again, slower this time. "I like you,"

"Don't." she said flatly.

He actually laughed.

She ignored him, standing to retrieve a bowl of water and a herbal poultice. As she worked, dabbing the infected skin with a gentler mixture, her curiosity finally got the better of her.

"I'm sorry," she said, not looking up at him. "But who exactly are you? You don't look or sound like you're from around here. And you also just called yourself a prince...?"

He didn't answer right away.

When he finally did, it was with a low, rich laugh that filled her clinic and made something tighten in her stomach--not fear but something.

"Oh, The Mother above," he said, placing a hand over his heart theatrically. "You really don't know."

"Why would I?"

He reached into his pocket, dropped a few gold coins on her counter with a quiet clink, then flexed his fingers as she finished bandaging him.

"I'm Eris," he said simply, rising to his full height. "Of the Autumn Court."

She stared.

"Son of High Lord Beron. Heir to the throne. That prince."

He stepped towards the door, already grinning again.

"And I must say," he added, "if the rest of the commoners are as interesting as you--well, these next three days are going to be quite the fun."

He had the audacity to wink at her.

But just before the door closed behind him, he paused and looked over his shoulder.

"Oh- and if Rhysand gets twitchy about me walking around his little city, it's his fault for inviting me. You know," he added, smirking. "diplomacy."

Her heart stopped.

Rhysand.

That name, spoken so casually--and from the lips of someone who looked like he might burn the world down just to warm his hands.

She stepped forward, lips parting in shock, but the door had already shut behind him.

Silence fell.

All she could hear now was the blood in her ears.

The moon was already climbing by the time she snuffed out the candle in her window.

Her shop was quiet now, unlike the chaos that unfurled in the morning. She moved through the closing routine without thinking: straightening vials, checking the latch on the back door, draping her apron over its usual hook.

And then, the bell over the front door chimed again.

"We're closed- "

Her body jolted at the sound--sharp and sudden in the stillness. She turned quickly, heart skipping. The closed sign still hung in the window.

A figure stepped in, not in armour this time, but the face was unmistakable. One of the males from earlier. The one who had ordered the other two guards to clear the room and pretended like she didn't even exist.

"You've got to be kidding me," Y/N muttered under her breath, already feeling her pulse pick up. "We're closed."

The male closed the door behind him with quiet precision, and this time, didn't loom or reach for a weapon. He kept his hands visible, eyes scanning the room before settling on her.

"The prince is in pain," he said without preamble.

Her mouth parted.

The guard's voice was low, urgent. "The injury's worsening. It's affecting his fever. He won't admit it but, he is burning up. He meets with High Lord Rhysand tomorrow--he cannot to appear week."

Y/N froze.

"You- he's- wait." She pressed a palm to her temple. "Your prince is meeting Rhysand? That Rhysand?"

The male didn't answer. Just waited.

The healer instincts kicked in like second nature. Shoving confusion and irritation to the back of her mind. There would be time for questions later.

She gave a clipped nod. "Give me a moment."

Moving quickly, she pulled a satchel from under her worktable and began filling it with what she’d need: stronger salves, sterile wraps, pain balm, two sealed vials of fever draught. She added a few extra tinctures, just in case the infection had spread deeper than she thought.

She threw her cloak over her shoulders as she turned to him. "Let's go."

The male didn’t hesitate. They left out the back alley, shadows from the rising moon following close behind. No words passed between them as they made their way through Velaris--him striding ahead with silent purpose, her following just behind, fingers clenched around the strap of her bag, heart thudding with something that wasn’t quite fear anymore.

Curiosity. Dread. Something in between.

They passed through quieter streets, away from the markets and and riverside cafés. Eventually, he led her toward a gated estate she had never noticed before, tucked discreetly behind high ivy-covered walls. Hidden in plain sight.

Two guards flanked the entrance. More stood along the inner courtyard, their expression grim and silent. Everything was just sleek and silent.

She was led through a wide atrium, the stone beneath her feet veined with red and gold, until they reached a curving staircase. The guard glanced back only once before ascending, motioning for her to follow.

They stopped at a set of ornate double doors.

The guard knocked once, then pushed them open.

And there he was.

Eris.

Stretched on a couch near a glowing hearth, his shirt discarded, a sheen of sweat clinging to his brow. His amber eyes were narrowed with pain, teeth clenched as he gripped his left forearm--the same one she’d treated earlier. The cloth wrap was half-peeled, stained dark with something she didn’t like the look of.

"Finally," he muttered through gritted teeth, barely sparing the guard a glance before locking his gaze on her.

But the arrogance was dimmed now, dulled by fever and exhaustion.

Y/N moved forward instinctively, dropping her bag by his side and rolling up her sleeves.

"I told you," she said, her voice low as she began unwrapping the wound. "a simple salve won't fix this."

His eyes flickered to her face. "You didn't say it would rot my arm off, either."

She didn't raise to the bait. Not this time. She peeled back last of the cloth, hissing quietly under her breath at the sight beneath.

Red. Angry. Swollen and streaked with dark lines that curled like veins towads his wrist.

Infected. Badly.

“I need hot water, clean towels, and light,” she said to the nearest guard, already uncorking a vial of antiseptic. “Now.”

As the room shifted into motion, she glanced back down at him. His breathing was shallow. But he still met her gaze with a familiar spark of pride.

She stared at him for a beat longer before murmuring, "What did you even do to this?"

Eris smirked weakly. "I made a poor judgment during the hunt. One of those barbed forest traps. Nasty bit of iron."

She muttered something unkind under her breath, then reached for her salve. “And of course, you thought arrogance would heal you faster than medicine.”

"It usually does," he drawled.

She cleaned the wound carefully, working with fast hands, doing her best to avoid his eyes--but it wasn’t easy. Even fevered, his stare held weight. And when he winced, just once, she knew the pain was real.

She began to wrap his arm again, layering clean gauze with care.

But when she looked up, he was already watching her.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

He held her gaze a moment longer. Then, as she tied off the final knot on his bandage, he reached into his coat, pulled out a pouch, and dropped a few gold coins into her palm with casual flair.

“Excellent work, healer,” he said, rising--albeit with a grimace--and fastening the top buttons of his shirt. “I’ll try not to let my arm fall off before tomorrow’s tedious diplomatic pleasantries.”

The room was too damn bright.

Golden morning light filtered through the arched windows of Velaris' council chambers, casting soft shadows over polished obsidian floors. And yet all Eris could think about was the heat blooming behind his left eye, and the slow, dull throb beneath his bandaged forearm.

He stood at one end of the long table, posture perfectly poised despite the roaring pain eating through his body like wildfire.

Opposite him, seated in effortless, unbothered power, was Rhysand--dressed in his signature black, lazily twirling a pen between two fingers as though he had nothing better to do than listen to a political rival present his case.

To Rhysand’s right sat his High Lady, Feyre Archeron--quiet, keen-eyed, taking in every movement, every breath.

To his left: Cassian and Azriel. The dog and the puppet.

And behind them, various Night Court officials with their crisp notes and cooler-than-thou stares, none of whom Eris bothered to remember by name.

“Well, if you’d just stop assigning half your border patrols to hover three miles off our riverlands, perhaps we’d stop mistaking it for a provocation,” Eris was saying, voice smooth as aged brandy. “Unless, of course, you like having my scouts file daily reports about your Illyrians flexing their wings over Autumn airspace.”

Cassian opened his mouth, but Rhysand beat him to it.

"Last I checked," he said lazily, "your scouts have a habit of getting 'lost' near our trade routes."

Eris gave him a slow, poisonous smile. "We can't all have shadows to fetch our intel for us."

A twitch in Azriel's jaw. Good.

Feyre cleared her throat, the diplomat in her rising. "We agreed to transparency, not accusations. Let's get back to the proposed trade clause- "

But Eris wasn't listening anymore.

Because just then, the pain surged.

It was as if his forearm had been caught in a vice, squeezed so tightly the bones might crack. Fire licked up the tendons, seared its way to his shoulder, and then--The Mother above--into the left side of his skull.

He did not move.

Did not wince.

He merely shifted his weight slightly, fingers tightening around the edge of the polished table.

He heard Rhys speaking again, something about tariffs and seasonal levies, but the words were muffled now, like they were being filtered through thick wool. The pain was carving through him, leaving behind tremors only his spine could feel.

Not here. Not in front of them.

He swallowed tightly, let his eyelids fall for half a second.

When he opened them again, he was moving.

“Well,” Eris said, interrupting the conversation mid-sentence. His voice was calm, fluid. Not a note out of place. “If we’re done here, I’d like to take my leave.”

Every head turned.

Rhysands gaze sharpened. "I didn't say the meeting is over."

Eris gave him the thinnest curve of a smirk.

“And yet your people seem to have already said everything twice. I’ve no interest in watching you circle the same points for another hour just to feel superior.”

A sharp inhale from someone in the council.

Cassian leaned forward slightly, always spoiling for a fight.

But Eris was already turning, arm going limp as he made for the door. Just before he reached it, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder.

“I’ll see you tonight at the summit. Don’t worry--I’ll try not to outshine you.”

And with that, he swept out.

The moment the doors closed behind him, his smirk dropped like a blade.

He spotted the same guard from yesterday--Daren, or Davin, he couldn’t remember--and stalked toward him with calculated grace, hiding the limp now crawling into his step.

"You," he said through clenched teeth. "Get me to the healer. Now."

The guard stiffened, already falling into step beside him.

Eris didn't look back.

He couldn't afford to--not when it felt like his own flesh was boiling from the inside out.

She had been to rich homes before. Lavish estates. Velvet-draped parlors and crystal chandeliers. But nothing about this place felt remotely like those.

No, this estate--that she is already coming in for the second time in a row--had a quiet kind of opulence. The stonework gleamed as if enchanted to always look freshly polished. The walls were guarded, but not with visible force, it was the subtle power humming through the corridors that told her this wasn’t just any visiting diplomat’s lodging.

And judging by how the guards immediately parted when she entered, they all knew why she was here.

Again.

“You know the way,” the same guard from earlier grunted, opening the staircase doors.

Y/N didn't respond. She just adjusted her satchel on her shoulder and hurried up.

At the top floor, the double doors were already ajar. Inside, she spotted him, sprawled across a chaise like some fallen prince from a tragic tale, his red-gold hair disheveled, chest rising and falling sharply beneath a half-undone tunic. One arm pressed tightly to his side.

The moment he saw her, he muttered something she didn’t catch. Likely not kind.

"You look like death," she said flatly while closing the door behind her.

“And yet, still more handsome than most males at their peak,” Eris rasped, lifting his head only slightly. “Charming, isn't it?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. "Take off your shirt."

He blinked. "So direct. I like that."

"Don't flatter yourself. I need to see the injury."

Eris grinned but obeyed, teeth clenched as he peeled the fabric away from his forearm. The moment the bandages were off, she inhaled sharply.

The infection had spread. Ugly red streaks crept up his veins, angry and hot to the touch. She didn’t even need to touch it to know the fever had worsened.

"Gods," she muttered, already reaching into her satchel. "It's still not going away."

“You try sitting through hours of diplomacy while your flesh feels like it’s melting,” he said, his tone almost too casual.

"Don't tempt me. I'll handle it better."

She applied the salve first--the cooling one she'd only used once before--and watched as his body went still. The tension began to bleed out of his jaw, and for a moment, he closed his eyes.

"You're good at this," he murmured.

"I am a healer," she replied. "Though, you might've figured that out with me healing you."

A huff of amusement. “Touché.”

She finished applying the mixture, bandaged it in fresh gauze, and was just reaching for the tincture when he opened his eyes again. Staring straight at her.

"I'm taking you back home with me."

Y/N froze. "Excuse me?!"

"You heard me."

She blinked. Then straightened. “I- what- no. No, you don’t just- You can’t just say things like that!”

He didn’t flinch. Just watched her with that smirking, arrogant calm that somehow made her want to slap him.

“I get that you’re a prince or whatever- ” she continued, voice rising now, “but who do you actually think you are? You think you can just tell people to move like pawns on a board?”

He looked wholly unbothered. If anything, the corner of his mouth twitched higher.

“I have a job here. I have patients. Clients. A shop. A life.” She gestured wildly, the words tumbling out now. “You think I’m just going to drop all of that because you snapped your fingers? Absolutely not. Do you know how long it took me to build- ”

“Relax,” he drawled, finally cutting in. “You’re only coming with me for a little while. Just until my arm is fully healed. Don’t worry, I won’t keep you in a cage. Unless you're into that.”

She stopped mid-rant, blinking.

He arched a brow at her, clearly pleased.

Y/N groaned and flopped into the chair beside him, rubbing her temples. “Are there no healers in the Autumn Court?”

“There are,” he said. “But since you started this particular treatment, it seems you’d be the only one to understand how to finish it.”

"That sounds like a convenient excuse."

He shrugged. “Besides... our healers tend to prefer methods that involve cauterization. Burning away infection. Sometimes without numbing agents.”

Her face scrunched. "That's barbaric."

"It's Autumn," he said with a half-smile. "We're not really know for our gentleness."

She sighed. "Of course you're not."

A beat passed. Then:

"You're serious abot this? she asked quietly, staring at him.

"I don't ask twice, healer."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're an arrogant bastard."

"I'm also in pain and I'd prefer not to be."

Silence.

Then, she said, "Fine. But if I'm going, I'm bringing my own herbs. And my salves. And I’m not sleeping in some cold drafty court hall with nothing but dying pine trees and angry men yelling about honor.”

Eris chuckled softly. "You have no idea what you're walking into."

Her lips twitched.

"I never do," she said. "And yet, I keep walking."

He was surprised to admit it--but for once, he wasn't miserable.

The Night Court had its flaws--a few too many stars, too much idealism in the air--but the estate wine was excellent, the fires warm, and his pain had, blessedly, lessened.

Thank the Cauldron for that healer. Well, not the gods. Her.

Eris adjusted the cuff of his tunic, flexing his bandaged arm beneath the fine fabric. Still tender, but the searing pain was gone. Whatever she’d laced into those salves, it was working better than any remedy he’d received in Autumn in years.

Now, if only the summit discussions weren’t so dreadfully boring.

Rhysand stood at the head of the great hall, flanked by his High Lady and that surly Illyrian brute, Cassian. To the right of him stood Azriel, all shadows and silence, glancing around like the walls themselves might betray him.

Eris sipped his wine and leaned against a pillar, letting the room’s low murmur fill the gaps in his thoughts. Court emissaries chattered over hors d’oeuvres, maps were unrolled and then forgotten, and no one seemed particularly eager to return to the debating table just yet.

He supposed now was as good a time as any.

He wandered over lazily to where Rhysand and Azriel stood in a quieter alcove, deep in murmured conversation. Feyre was elsewhere now, no doubt trying to keep the rest of the political flock from descending into chaos.

“Rhysand,” Eris drawled smoothly, swirling his wine, “before I forget--when I leave tomorrow, I’ll be taking one of your healers with me.”

Both Rhysand and Azriel stopped talking.

Eris took another sip, savoring their expressions. “Temporarily, of course. No need for alarm. She already agreed.”

Rhysand's brows arched. "Excuse me?"

"I said, I'm taking one of your healers."

Rhysands voice dropped a note. "Why?"

Eris gave a slow, lazy shrug. “Well, I’ve recently discovered that our court’s preferred healing methods are…barbaric. And this one’s already familiar with a small injury I have. Nothing that serious, really. Besides--she volunteered.”

“That doesn’t answer why you need her,” Rhys said coolly.

“You’re not known for your courtesies,” Azriel said quietly.

Eris turned his gaze on the shadowsinger, tilting his head. “Oh? The puppet speaks?”

Azriel’s expression didn’t change, but his jaw flexed ever so slightly.

Eris smirked. “And here I thought you were just Rhysand’s ominous little ornament.”

“I asked which healer it is.”

Eris blinked innocently. “Oh? Why so curious? Has she been patching up your emotional wounds, perhaps?”

Azriel’s fists curled at his sides, just a hair too tightly.

Rhysand stepped forward. “If she’s a citizen of Velaris, we have a right to know who you’re taking.”

Eris looked between them now--the High Lord and his silent blade. Interesting.

The way Azriel’s jaw ticked. The way his shadows were pooling tighter, sharper. The way his dark eyes flickered, not with confusion, but something else entirely.

Oh.

Oh.

Eris blinked once. Then, in a moment of rare honesty, laughed.

“Would you believe me if I told you…I actually don’t know her name?”

Rhysand’s eyes narrowed slightly. Azriel’s didn’t move.

“Well,” Eris said lightly, turning away, “I’ll fix that when I see her again.”

He glanced back once more with that same maddening grin, and added, “No need for the dramatics, boys. You’ve got thousands of healers. One leaving for a while won’t make a drastic difference.”

And with that, he strolled away, wine in hand, cloak trailing like flame behind him--already calculating just how much more interesting this healer had become.

Y/N didn't move.

She stood just inside the room, arms crossed, cloak still wrapped tightly around her as if it could shield her from what she's about to say.

"I can't go with you," she said, voice quiet but firm.

Eris blinked, where he lounged back on the chaise. "Pardon?"

"I said no." She set her satchel on the table and straightened, chin lifting. "I'm not going to the Autumn Court."

His brow arched slowly, like he couldn't decide whether to be annoyed or amused. "You already agreed."

"I didn't say yes," she snapped. "You made some arrogant declaration and I didn't have time to respond before you vanished like a smog fox in the wind."

He smirked. "So poetic. But you still came."

"To treat your festering arm," she snapped, walking over to check the bandage. "Not to pack my life into a travel trunk and run off into the leaves with you."

Eris hissed as her fingers brushed a sore spot. "Gods, you're dramatic."

"No," she said, voice steel. "I'm practical. I have a clinic. Patients. Responsibilities. And a High Lord who will probably send someone knocking if I vanish without a word."

Eris leaned back, eyes narrowing. "So what do you have me do, then?"

"I don't know," she said, exasperated. "Prolong your stay. Heal here."

He sat up, scoffing. "Prolong?!"

"You heard me."

Eris laughed--short, sharp, disbelieving. "Do you think I want to spend another day playing polite in Rhysand's cheerful little trap of a city?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to keep your arm?"

He glared. "That is beside the point."

"No," she said, crossing her arms again. "It's exactly the point. If you leave now, your fevere will spike again, and you'll be lucky if you don't collapse halfway home. Unless you want to let the Autumn Court healers to roast the infection out of you."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Growled softly under his breath.

Then, finally:

"Very well," Eris muttered, like it tasted bitter. "I'll stay."

She blinked. "Really?"

He stood, walking past her toward the hearth, the long line of his back tense beneath the fine shirt. "Until you've healed me completely. Not a moment longer."

Y/N raised a brow. "How generous of you."

"I know," he said dryly. "I'm practically a saint."

She rolled her eyes.

He turned just enough to glance over his shoulder, and though his face was unreadable, something in his voice softened--just a fraction.

"But when I leave," he said, "you're going to miss me."

Y/N snorted. "Doubtful."

He smirked again, but it didn't quiet reach his eyes this time. "We'll see."

And from then on, began the strange arrangement: the arrogant prince and the healer who refused to indulge his pride.

It wasn't a one big moment thing really. Not at all.

It was more like a collection of small moments that began slowly but surely affecting them both.

It started that very evening, when he woke in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and swearing like a soldier.

Y/N was already there, seated on the edge of the chaise, a damp cloth in hand.

"You were muttering," she said, voice hushed. "Thrashing."

"I don't thrash."

"You almost kicked me."

Eris blinked at her, brow furrowed. "You're...still here."

She gave him a flat look. "You're still burning up. Try not to die before sunrise."

He grinned faintly, delirious. "It'd be worth it, if I take some of your stubbornness with me."

She pressed the cloth to his brow harder than necessary.

Or this other time where:

"You made tea?" he asked, surprised.

She didn't look up from her notes. "You like bergamot, don't you?"

A beat passed. Then two.

"Dangerous thing, guessing what I like."

She smirked. "Relax. If it was poison, I wouldn't waste it on tea."

They didn't talk that night.

She read. He drank.

The fire crackled between them, casting soft light on his jaw, her lashes.

At one point, his fever came back, just a flicker of discomfort across his brow, and she reached across to feel his forehead without a word.

He didn't flinch.

When their eyes met, something unspoken flickered in the space between them.

She looked away first.

Or that silly time when:

"Is this...black silk?"

Y/N stared at the tunic laid out for Eris on the bed.

He lounged nearby, massaging his arm slowly. "I was told to blend in. Apparently Night Court style means drowning in silk and regret."

Y/N snorted. "You're going to trip over that hem."

"I've tripped over less graceful things than fashion."

She paused. "Like what?"

His eyes glittered. "You, for example."

She threw a roll of bandage at his head.

“I don’t like Velaris,” he said one evening, quietly, eyes on the stars beyond the window.

She didn’t respond right away.

“Too soft?” she asked eventually.

“Too honest,” he murmured.

Y/N turned to him.

He didn’t look away.

“I’m not like you fae,” Eris said. “I wasn’t raised in warmth.”

“No,” she said, just as quiet. “But you still deserve to be kept warm.”

That was the first night he didn’t argue.

And yes, she had moved in with him.

Yes, it was because she needed to be close to him at all times in order to easily help him.

But…

There were now two teacups on the side table every morning.

A second cloak hung on the hook near the door.

And when the fever came again in the middle of the night--sharp, fast, like it was waiting until he dropped his guard--she was already there, pressing a vial to his lips before he could mutter a word of complaint.

“You’re pacing.”

It was nearly midnight. She found him standing in front of the window, half-dressed, the moonlight gilding the faint sheen of sweat along his brow.

He didn’t turn around. “Thinking.”

She crossed the room slowly, arms folded over the worn cardigan she always wore when the air dipped cooler.

“You do that often?”

“Not when people are watching.”

She stepped beside him, looked out over the lights of Velaris. “Well, now you’ll have to try something new.”

He exhaled a short breath, then glanced at her. “You always show up when I’m least tolerable.”

“Lucky for you, I have no tolerance left to spare.”

Something flickered behind his amber eyes. Not a smirk this time. Just the faintest crease of something real.

“You could’ve stayed at your shop,” he murmured. “Sent someone else. I know you don’t like this.”

“This?” she asked.

“Being near me.”

He said it like it should be obvious. Inevitable.

She looked at him for a long, quiet moment.

Then, softly, “It’s not as simple as that.”

He turned away before she could see what that did to him.

The Mornings Got Quieter.

Once, he would rise before dawn just to be difficult.

Now, he let her sleep in the chair beside the fireplace when she drifted off after late-night treatments. He draped a blanket over her without waking her.

She found it in the morning and didn’t ask.

He didn’t mention the soft smile that tugged at his mouth when she noticed.

“You snore.”

He blinked. “I what?”

“You snore,” she repeated, spooning honey into his tea like it was a personal attack. “Like a wounded bear.”

“I don’t snore,” he said, affronted. “That’s slander.”

“I have earplugs now. Made them myself.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You shouldn’t. Because I lied. I just suffer through it in silence.”

“You wound me.”

“You’ll live.”

A pause.

His voice was quieter this time. “Not if you leave.”

She stilled.

Their eyes met.

Neither looked away.

"What?"

"Nothing."

One Morning, She Wasn’t There.

Just once.

He woke up with his arm aching and the hearth cold and the chair empty.

His whole chest clenched.

He pulled on his boots, half-buttoned his tunic, stormed into the hallway, ready to tear into whatever idiot guard had let her wander off alone when--

“There you are,” she said casually, walking in from the back garden, basket full of herbs in her arms. “I needed fresh white willow bark. We ran out.”

He stared at her. Said nothing.

She paused. “What?”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

She blinked.

Then her expression softened. “Eris…”

“No one knew where you were.”

“I was gone fifteen minutes.”

“That’s long enough.”

She stepped closer.

He didn’t move.

“You’re not used to people coming back,” she said softly.

He didn’t confirm it.

He didn’t have to.

She reached out, very carefully, and placed her hand on his arm--not the injured one. The other.

He relaxed, just slightly.

She Started Sitting Beside Him.

Not across the room. Not in the other chair.

Beside him.

Sometimes their shoulders touched. Sometimes they didn’t.

He never commented.

Except once.

“Careful,” he murmured, not looking away from the fire. “I might start thinking you enjoy my company.”

She didn’t respond for a moment.

Then, “I do.”

He turned his head.

She added, “When you’re not talking.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Of course.”

But something in him settled.

Like a knot loosening in his chest.

One Evening, He Let Something Slip.

They were seated by the fire again--he drinking something dark and bitter, her scribbling healing notes in her little worn ledger.

“There’s a reason I didn’t let Autumn Court healers touch me,” he said suddenly, unprompted.

She looked up.

“They don’t ask questions. Don’t listen. They’re efficient, brutal, and only loyal to the title, not the person beneath it.”

Y/N didn’t speak.

So he added, “You asked. You saw. That makes you dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” she echoed.

“To me.”

He didn’t explain.

She didn’t ask.

But Then One Night, It Was Too Quiet.

He lay on the chaise, his arm freshly wrapped, the fire burning low.

She was curled in the chair again, legs tucked under her, book resting on her chest as she dozed off.

He watched her for a long time.

The scar above her brow.

The tiny freckle near her collarbone.

The way her breath deepened when she fell asleep.

He didn’t know when it had happened. When her presence became comforting. When her silence began to feel sacred. When his days began revolving not around politics or power--but her.

He stood quietly, moved to the chair beside her.

Just to be closer.

Just to stay.

Just for a little while.

It had already been a week.

Seven days of Eris staying in Velaris.

Seven days of morning poultices and carefully measured tinctures, of whispered curses when the salve stung too much and smug smirks when it didn’t. Seven days of shared firelight and sarcastic retorts, of slowly lowering walls and cautious trust. Seven days, and Eris had made substantial progress.

The angry redness had faded. The swelling had gone down. His fever no longer lingered in his voice or eyes.

And yet, oddly, he hadn’t made arrangements to return to the Autumn Court just yet.

Y/N hadn’t asked why. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Now, in the soft hush of late afternoon, she moved about her clinic in practiced ease. The last patient of the day had just left--a young fae male with a dislocated shoulder and an unhealthy addiction to dramatics. The scent of peppermint lingered in the air, the way it always did after a long day of work. She tied off the fresh cloth on the supply shelf, took a long breath, and allowed herself a moment to enjoy the quiet.

And then-

She felt it before she heard it.

The gentle shift in the air. The way the shadows bent. That quiet presence that didn’t make itself known so much as it made itself felt.

Her hand stilled on the shelf. Her heart dropped. And when she turned--

Azriel.

Standing just inside the doorway like he’d never left. Like he still belonged in her space. In her world. His hazel eyes soft and full of something she refused to name, wings tucked neatly behind him, shoulders tense but open.

Her mouth went dry.

The feelings hit her all at once--anger, ache, bitterness, longing. The confusion. The memory of sleepless nights, of whispering his name into her pillow, of wondering what she’d done wrong. The endless loop of silence that followed their last argument. The way he’d left things--cutting, unfinished.

All the pain she had learned to keep buried beneath her ribcage came clawing back.

Azriel took one step forward. “May we- may we talk?”

Her spine straightened.

“I think we’ve talked enough,” she said coolly. “Sir.”

His jaw flexed at the formality. He flinched, almost imperceptibly, but didn't retreat.

“I deserve that,” he said quietly.

She said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he continued, stepping closer. “For everything. For not knowing how to stay. For not trusting what we had. For the silence. For the way I left.”

Y/N crossed her arms. “I don’t need your apologies.”

“I know,” he said. “But I need to give them.”

She looked away.

He kept going. “I tried to forget you. I swear to the Mother, I tried. I thought maybe if I threw myself into my work, maybe if I distracted myself long enough, the ache would fade. But it didn’t.”

Silence.

“I went to taverns,” he said, his voice rough now. “Met people. Tried to… find someone who could help me take my mind off of you. Someone who could make me forget your laugh. Your hands. Your voice. Your eyes.”

“But I failed,” he breathed. “Every. Single. Time.”

He took a shaky breath. “No one is you.”

“Az,” she said quietly, discomfort clawing into her chest, “please leave.”

But he didn’t.

Instead, to her horror, he dropped to his knees.

Her eyes widened.

He looked up at her like she was a star he could never quite reach. Like he was drowning.

“Please,” he whispered. “Just- tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix this. I’ll do anything.”

Her back hit the cabinet behind her as she took a step back.

And then he reached forward.

Wrapped his arms around her middle, holding her like she was the only thing anchoring him to this realm. His face pressed into the fabric of her dress. She could feel the raggedness of his breathing. The way his entire body trembled.

It was too much.

“Azriel- stop,” she said sharply. “Get up. This isn’t- this isn’t fair.”

But he just clung tighter, and when she looked down, she saw the glassiness in his eyes. The way his lips parted, like another apology was already forming.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I never stopped. I’ve never- please, Y/N, I don’t know who I am without you- ”

The bell above the door chimed.

Y/N froze.

Azriel didn’t move.

And across the room, just stepping into the clinic, Eris stopped dead in his tracks.

His eyes scanned the scene, Azriel on his knees, clinging to her waist. Her frozen form. The tension. The way her hands hovered, not touching, not returning the hold.

Eris's face shifted. From surprise--cold and sharp--to something else entirely.

Anger.

Quiet. Controlled. Dangerous.

He didn’t speak. Just stared at Azriel with a glint in his eyes that looked very, very close to flame.

Azriel still hadn’t noticed. He didn’t care. His face was still buried against her stomach, his voice barely above a breath.

“I don’t care who walks in. I’m not leaving. Not again.”

Y/N’s heart thundered in her chest.

She didn’t know where to look. Didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to breathe.

And Eris... took one step forward.

Eris’s voice cut through the room like a blade dipped in ice.

“Get the fuck up, Azriel.”

The shadowsinger stilled.

Y/N felt his entire body tense against hers as his head slowly turned--at last--to acknowledge the male who now stood at the door, firelight dancing across his crimson leathers and amber eyes burning with quiet fury.

Azriel rose to his feet in a slow, deliberate motion. His jaw was tight. His face unreadable. “Why are you still in Velaris?”

Y/N quickly stepped forward, trying to dissolve the tension with practiced calm. “Eris was greatly injured. He chose to remain here so I could oversee his recovery. The High Lord is aware of the prolonged visit, Azriel, so there’s no need to get all- ”

Neither male acknowledged her.

Eris’s voice was low and cool. “Come here, Y/N.”

She blinked, stunned by the possessive edge in his tone. She had never seen him like this--this sharp, this protective.

Before she could even move, Azriel’s wing shifted--like a curtain of shadow--spreading protectively in front of her and blocking her from Eris’s view.

“She’s where she needs to be,” Az said darkly. “Behind me.”

Eris’s eyes gleamed, his smirk all cruel sharpness. “She shouldn’t be behind you. She shouldn’t be behind anyone.”

Azriel didn’t flinch. “So my Y/N was the healer you mentioned. The one tending to your wounds.”

“And what if she is?” Eris stepped further into the room, slow, measured. “Is there something wrong with her doing her job and healing me?”

Az’s voice dropped into something colder. “You always had a way of turning necessity into manipulation.”

“Funny,” Eris shot back, “I could say the same about you and affection.”

Y/N’s chest was tight, her hands clenched at her sides.

Azriel took another step. “She was never yours, Eris.”

“And yet,” Eris said, his smile dangerous, “I’m the one she wakes up to every morning now.”

Y/N made a soft noise of disbelief, but neither male looked at her.

“She’s uncomfortable,” Eris added, voice suddenly edged with anger. “Leave her alone.”

“She’s uncomfortable,” Azriel snapped, “because of you. Not her lover.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

“You’re not my lover,” she said, voice sharp, shocked. “You don’t get to speak for me like that.”

Eris’s gaze flicked to hers briefly. Then, back to Azriel.

“You have five seconds,” he said, voice a deadly hush, “to step the fuck away from Y/N. Or I will make sure that not only you, but the entirety of this delicate, self-righteous city, regrets ever crossing me.”

Azriel didn’t budge.

He and Eris were toe to toe now, death in both of their stares.

The shadows in the room pulsed.

The temperature shifted.

Y/N snapped.

“Enough!”

Both males froze as she stepped between them, planting a hand firmly on each of their chests, shoving just enough to make them take a half step back.

Her breath came in ragged, furious bursts.

“This is my clinic,” she seethed, “and I will not allow either of you to destroy it because of your foolish egos.”

Her gaze turned to Azriel. Icy. Final.

“Shadowsinger,” she said, voice trembling with restrained rage, “please leave my clinic. And do not come here again.”

Azriel’s expression cracked for the first time. His lips parted, pain flickering in his eyes. “Y/N- ”

“Now.”

Silence.

Eris stared at him with blistering satisfaction.

Azriel’s shadows curled tightly around him like armor. But he said nothing more.

He turned.

And left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Y/N stood in the quiet, the weight of it all pressing down on her bones.

She didn’t turn around. Not immediately.

When she finally did, Eris was watching her carefully. Expectantly. But not smug.

“Go ahead,” he said softly. “I’m ready for whatever version of that story you want to tell.”

Y/N sighed, wearily rubbing her temple. “You might want to sit for this one.”

She exhaled again. “It’s a long story.”

“…and yeah,” Y/N exhaled, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, “that’s how we eventually fell out.”

The words sat between them, raw and exposed.

She didn’t look at him right away--half-expecting a scoff, a sarcastic remark, maybe even a too-sharp smile. This wasEris Vanserra, after all. Arrogant. Sharp-tongued. Impossible.

But when she finally glanced his way-

He wasn’t mocking her.

Eris sat back in the chair by the examination table, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely. His expression was unreadable at first--but then softened by something quieter, something thoughtful.

“That,” he said slowly, “is… horrible.”

Y/N blinked.

He wasn’t joking. There was no amusement in his tone. No smirk twisting his lips. Just quiet sincerity.

“I thought you’d mock me,” she said plainly. “Or call me naive. Or say I should’ve known better.”

“I think,” Eris said, eyes flicking to hers, “you’ve heard more than enough of that already. Haven’t you?”

Something in her chest gave a little. She didn’t answer.

Eris leaned back slightly, eyes scanning the ceiling like he was sorting through his own thoughts. “You know, I used to think heartbreak was something you could outsmart,” he said lightly. “That if you were clever enough, detached enough, you could sidestep it. Avoid the mess. The… bleeding.”

Y/N’s lips curved faintly. “That sounds very on brand for you.”

Eris gave her a dry look. “Yes, well. Turns out even I’m not immune to foolish choices and inconvenient feelings.”

Her brow lifted. “You’ve had your heart broken, Eris?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

But then he gave a slow, one-shouldered shrug. “Once. Maybe twice. Depends on how you define heartbreak.” His eyes met hers. “But betrayal? Yeah. That I’m well acquainted with.”

A quiet beat passed between them.

Y/N leaned against the edge of the counter, arms loosening just a little. “I didn’t think you’d be… kind about it.”

“I’m not kind,” he said, though his voice lacked any real sharpness. “I just don’t see the point in kicking someone when they’re already lying face-down in the mud.”

She huffed. “Romantic.”

Eris grinned faintly. “You’re the one who moved in with me, remember.”

“Out of medical necessity.”

“Sure.” He tipped his head, mock-thoughtful. “And yet, here we are. Talking like civilized people. After you just told me about your heartbreak. And I didn’t once make fun of you.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. “Should I be impressed?”

“I think you are impressed.”

Her face twitched, almost amused. “Maybe a little.”

He offered her the most sincere smile she’d ever seen from him. Small. Subtle. But real.

And for the first time in a while, the room didn’t feel full of shadow or heat or unresolved wounds.

Just... two fae. Sharing something sincere.

Quiet. And almost soft.

And that... that moment shifted everything.

It didn’t happen all at once. But something changed after that night.

He stopped snarking as much.

She stopped bracing for his next cruel remark.

They began to share silences that weren’t uncomfortable, and conversations that drifted beyond his injury or her clinic or duty. She still rolled her eyes when he complained about the tea in Velaris--too weak, too floral--but now she did it with a tug at the corner of her mouth that looked suspiciously like a smile.

And when he caught it, he smiled too.

It was late afternoon. Golden light spilled through the windows of the clinic’s upstairs sitting room. Y/N stood with her fingers brushing the spines of her bookshelf, searching for something to read, when a familiar voice drawled behind her.

“I always pictured you more as a tragic-poetry type. All heartbreak and metaphors and brooding. But you have an entire shelf of smut.”

Her eyes widened. “Eris!”

“What?” he said innocently, holding the small book he’d pulled from the shelf like it had personally offended him. “‘Lord of Lust: Volume II’? Really?”

She snatched it from his hands, cheeks heating. “That is none of your business.”

He grinned, clearly delighted. “I stand corrected. You're not a tragic-poetry type at all.”

She glared at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said smugly, “you haven’t thrown me out yet.”

And she hadn’t. She didn’t even want to.

There was one night, later that week, when the power flickered out in the clinic after a rare summer storm rolled through.

Eris lit a few candles without asking and sat across from her at the little kitchen table, his injured arm--still bound loosely--resting beside a cup of tea she’d made for him.

For once, there was no teasing. No smugness.

Just the soft light of flame flickering over his sharp features as he said, “I think I understand why you left him.”

Y/N looked up from her own cup, brows furrowed.

He continued, voice quieter than usual. “You needed to be something other than what he saw you as.”

She looked away, throat tightening.

He didn’t press.

But she nodded once, slowly. And when she eventually looked up, his eyes were waiting.

She caught him sleeping once.

It was in the treatment chair by the window, sunlight falling over his face, his red hair glowing gold at the edges. His long frame was curled, barely fitting, his head tilted slightly toward the arm that had almost completely healed.

She should’ve woken him. But she didn’t.

Instead, she watched him breathe slowly, lashes brushing high cheekbones, face unguarded in a way she’d never seen before.

Soft. Younger. Almost gentle.

He stirred at one point, murmuring her name--not in pain, but like he’d been dreaming about her. Just her name.

And she had to walk out of the room, heart racing too fast.

By the end of the second week, the healing was complete.

Y/N stood beside Eris, carefully unwrapping the last of the bandages around his arm. Her fingers moved slowly, almost reluctantly, as she peeled away the final layer.

The skin beneath was smooth. Healthy. Whole.

“It’s done,” she said quietly. “You’re fully healed.”

There was a silence.

He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulder, studying the movement. “Feels... strange. Like I shouldn’t be. Like I expected more time.”

Her hand lingered on his forearm just a second too long before she stepped back.

He watched her.

“I leave tomorrow,” he said, voice even.

Y/N nodded once. “Of course.”

But something pulled in her chest--unexpected, unwelcome. The strange ache of parting she hadn’t anticipated. Two weeks ago, she’d dreamed of getting him out of her clinic.

Now?

Now the thought of the space feeling that quiet again felt... wrong.

Eris tilted his head slightly, watching her too closely. “Are you glad?”

She blinked. “What?”

“That I’m leaving.”

“I... I’m glad your arm’s healed,” she said carefully.

“But not that I’m leaving,” he murmured.

She didn’t answer. Not out loud.

But the silence said enough.

And Eris didn’t push. Just nodded once, slowly.

“Right,” he said, his voice unreadable. “I’ll try not to make too much noise when I go.”

And with that, he turned and left the room.

Leaving her standing there, staring at the empty space he’d just been.

And wondering what, exactly, had just changed between them.

A pale morning glow stretched across the Harbor of Velaris. Salt-scented air mingled with the murmur of waves and creak of rigging.

Eris stood at the prow of the dock, gazing at his ship--gilded sails furled—waiting for its final preparations. His arm felt light, unbound at last, but his chest felt heavy with what was coming.

To his left, Rhysand paced quietly. To his right, Feyre and Azriel watched from a respectful distance. The tension between Eris and Azriel was taut--brooding glances, clipped silence, unspoken memories burned behind eyes. They acknowledged each other only when forced. And today, necessity reigned.

Eris’s gaze drifted over the familiar shapes of Night Court royalty. He felt something ache deep in his chest--like he should have stayed longer, talked more, argued less. These past two weeks, his emotions had been a strange tangle. He’d come expecting inconvenience and duty. Instead, he found himself drawn to Y/N in ways he never anticipated: waking in the night thinking of her laugh, seeking the warmth of her side in dreams, barely breathing when he felt her near.

He cast his eyes back to the ship--steady and certain.

And then came her voice.

“Eris!” floated across the hush.

Every head turned.

Y/N came running, boots thudding against wooden planks, hair tumbling and heart fluttering. In her hands were two large bags, swinging by her sides as she didn’t even glance at anyone--just him.

She reached the dock’s edge, dropped the bags with a thud, and without warning, wrapped herself around him, hugging him tight.

Eris froze--his chest expanding as he realized she was holding him.

She pulled back just enough to breathe. Her eyes glimmered with triumph and vulnerability.

“Yes,” she said softly, clearly meant for him.

He swallowed. “Yes to…?”

She leaned in, voice strong. “Yes. Eris- I’m coming with you.”

Silence.

Confusion and hope warred across his face.

He continued, eyes bright: “I hope you won’t be disappointed in your visit.”

She shook her head, smile growing. “Visit? Oh no. Eris. I’m coming with you. Forever.”

There was a gasp--Feyre’s soft intake of breath echoed in the still air.

It was then that they both realized: they were not alone.

Eris blinked at the Court behind them. Y/N, finally noticing, bowed quickly.

“I- apologies- High Lord Rhysand, High Lady Feyre- I didn’t fully see you there.”

Rhysand’s eyes softened. “Welcome. This is... unexpected.”

Azriel’s gaze flickered with something, something unreadable. Maybe regret. Maybe acceptance.

Feyre asked gently, cautious but kind: “Are you sure? Autumn is not an easy place to be.”

Y/N turned to Eris and smiled. “Yes. I am sure.” She looked back at Feyre. “I want to start over. I want to live a fresh life somewhere I’m not haunted by my past.”

She met Azriel’s eyes briefly. He looked hurt, but she didn’t look away.

When Feyre asked why, Y/N exhaled. “Because I have nothing and no one to hold on to in a city that only ever broke me. Because I want to live.”

There was a long pause. Then Rhysand nodded once. Azriel didn’t speak. Feyre simply studied Y/N with something like hope.

With gentle protectiveness, Eris placed his hand at her waist. At last he spoke, voice soft but clear: “Shall we board?”

Feyre offered a polite but warm smile. Azriel was silent and respectful as Eris took Y/N’s hand and led her toward the ship.

On deck, Eris turned to her. “Are you coming as a healer? A friend? Or may I- hope for something more?”

Y/N paused, a small, playful smirk dancing on her lips. “Let us move slowly for now, Vanserra. I need time before things get serious again.”

Eris’s eyes softened, golden and sincere. “I know. I may be a little too hot-headed on many things, but you are one of the most certain decisions I think I ever made.”

She slipped her fingers into his.

He smiled.

Azriel watched them ascend into their new world-Autumn light painting their silhouettes with promise.

Eris invited Y/N across the gangplank.

She looked back one last time at Velaris rising behind her, then turned fully to the ship and to him.

And together, under their Autumn-colored sails, they embarked toward whatever came next, heart in hand, hope in step, and a quiet promise of healing, love, and new beginnings.

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Tag list: @onebadassunicorn @mystirica-18 @manicmanuscription @thestartitaness @moryss @windy-amaryllis @masbt1218 @songbirdpond @pandawritesthings210 @blessthepizzaman @clementine111002 @seasttarr

[moonlitstoriess]

Hiiii!!! I hope ur doing good and enjoying ur summer. Could I request some angst to fluff with Fenrys? 💗

Still, You Stayed-Fenrys x fem!reader

Summary: Fenrys hesitated, just for a second, and Y/N paid the price. Now she’s hurt, and he can’t stop replaying the moment over and over. But when she wakes, she doesn’t blame him, she reaches for his hand.

Warnings: angst, Fenrys literally blaming himself for everything,

A/N: Hii, I'm having a blast! Hope you are too💕 Thank you for the request, anon! Fenrys is one of my faves so I hope I did him justice in this one😆

See masterlist

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The word echoed like a heartbeat in his skull, pulsing louder with every step he took down the corridor, away from her. Away from the room where they were trying to keep her breathing.

He should've stayed. He should've watched. He should've-

Should've moved.

One second. That's all it had been. One gods-damned second of hesitation. He'd smelled the trap. Heard the shift in the wind. Felt it in his bones the way animals do, instincts clawing at the back of his mind, but he froze. His feet rooted to the forest floor, his magic flickering out long enough for the blow to land on her instead of him.

Steel and blood. Her blood.

Now Y/N--his everything, his mate--was unconscious, barely clinging to the edge of life, and it was his fault. All of it. He'd frozen, just like with his brother. Just like before.

Fenrys' hands shook as he gripped the edge of the stone wall, his breath coming too fast, too shallow.

Coward.

Useless.

Dangerous.

He hadn't even been able to walk into the room after they brought her back to camp. Just the sight of her--pale, still, soaked in red--was enough to make his wolf recoil. So he'd left. Told Lorcan to give him constant updates. Snapped at Aelin when she asked if he was okay.

He couldn't be near her. He didn't deserve to be. She got hurt because of him. And if she dies?

He wasn't sure there'd be anything left of him at all.

He'd faced death.

Faced worse than death.

But nothing, nothing, felt lke this.

That image, Y/N's eyes going wide when she saw the attack coming, looped in his mind like a curse. She hadn't flinched. She'd moved. For him.

And he'd just-

Watched.

"Fuck," he muttered, slamming the side of his fist into the cold stone wall. The pain grounded him for a breath or two, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly.

What had he been thinking? That he was past it? That he could be part of a unit again, trust his instincts again, protect someone?

His hands had always been fast, faster than anyone. He was the wolf, the blur in the dark, the blade in the silence. But Maeve had trained hesitation into him with a collar and commands. Taught him that obedience was safer than instinct. That loyalty meant letting someone else decide when they lived or died.

And now that hesitation had nearly cost him the only being who looked at him like he wasn't just a weapon in a pretty body. He swallowed hard, the taste of blood and bile thick on his tounge.

She had laughed with him just that morning. Teased him about his hair being "objectively too perfect" after a fight. Said he needed to stop brooding like a tragic nobleman. He hadn't told her how that laugh had made his chest ache in the best kind of way. How when he kissed her, he felt guilty because she was too good, too alive, and he was just surviving.

He'd thought keeping his distance would keep her safe.

And still, she got hurt. Of course she did.

Because Fenrys Moonbeam only knew how to destroy things he loved. He slid down the wall, back scraping stone as he sank into a crouch, head in his hands. The corridor was cold. Quiet. Far enough from the healing tents that he couldn't hear the quiet bustle or smell the iron stink of blood anymore.

But his hands still shook.

And her blood was still on them.

She'd known. That was the worst part.

She'd known the blow wasn't meant for her.

"Fenrys-"

Her voice, sharp and steady, had broken through the fog just as a blade sang through the air. He remembered the sound before anything else--the thwip of a sword leaving a sheath, the sudden silence in the clearing.

He should have moved. Should have shifted. Should have stepped forward, done something. But the scent of cold iron and the ghost of Maeve's voice had slammed into him like a chain around his throat. Just like before. Just like-

"Move."

But he didn't.

She did.

Y/N shoved him aside and took the hit that was meant for him, not a clean strike, but deep enough. Sharp enough. The sword caught her ribs and tore through the curve of her side, and she crumpled like something snapped inside her.

He remembered the color of her blood. Vivid against the moss. The way her mouth opened, like she wanted to say something, but all that came out was a soft gasp. Then silence.

Fenrys dragged in a breath like it might hold him together. It didn't.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, but he could still see it, her face, her blood, the way her body hit the ground.

"Coward," he whispered to himself. "Fucking coward."

Footsteps.

He didn't look up. Didn't move.

"I figured I'd find you here," Lorcan's voice said, calm but not unkind. "Still hiding from your mate?"

Fenrys flinched. Not at the words, but the truth of them.

"How is she?" he rasped. His voice felt like it had been dragged through gravel.

A pause.

That pause was too long.

"Alive," Lorcan said finally. "Barely."

Something in Fenrys' chest cracked.

"Then why- " he started, but the words wouldn't come. He shook his head.

"You can go to her, you know," Lorcan said. "She hasn't asked for you. But she hasn't asked for anyone else, either."

He turned, started walking away.

"Fenrys."

He stopped.

"I understand that you two found out about the bond very recently but..." Lorcan said without looking back, "Next time, don't wait until she's bleeding to decide if she's worth the risk."

Then he was gone.

And Fenrys was alone again.

Except he wasn't sure how much longer he could stand it.

She'd felt worse. She had.

The battlefield at Orynth. The dungeons under Doranelle. That cursed valley where silence reigned and nothing ever healed.

But this?

This was different.

Not because of the pain. That was manageable, distant, even. A dull, spreading ache across her side that pulsed with her heartbeat. No, what hurt the most was the absence.

Him.

She couldn't feel Fenrys--not the way she should. The bond between them, freshly awakened only weeks ago, was still there, still humming faintly like a silver thread in her chest. But he'd pulled away. Closed himself off.

She knew why.

Of course she knew why.

She was the only one he'd ever told, really told, about what Maeve had done to him. The collar. The commands. The torture he had to endure with Aelin. The broken pieces he'd stitched together just well enough to fight in the war. And she'd listened to every word, had held his hand the night he finally said his brothers name without flinching.

So when she saw him freeze on that field...she didn't hesitate.

He was worth the pain. Worth the risk.

Because she'd seen the way he looked at her like she was the last good thing left in a world that only ever took. And because he didn't believe, still didn't believe, that he could protect what he loved.

She swallowed, throat raw.

He was probably out there now, hating himself.

Believing he failed again.

Believing she was just one more name to add to the pile of ghosts he carried. Her fingers twitched weakly against the blanket.

No.

She wouldn't let him slip into that place again. Not over her. Not when she chose this. Chose him.

A soft rustle broke the quiet. She turned her head slightly--every moment a scream beneath her skin--and caught sight of Yrene by her bedside, sorting through a few vials.

"Yrene," she rasped, voice nearly gone.

The healer was at her side in an instant. "Easy, Y/N. You lost a lot of blood."

"I know," she whispered. Then, slower, "Is...Fenrys...?"

Yrene's expression didn't shift, but her hands stilled. "He's nearby," she said gently. "Hasn't come in. But he's been asking Lorcan for updates. Often."

Of course he had.

"Can I...see him?" she asked, throat burning.

For a moment, Yrene just looked at her, long and thoughtful. Then the healer's face softened, and she brushed a strand of hair back from Y/N's temple.

"I'll send for him," Yrene said softly. "And for what it's worth...he hasn't taken his eyes off that door since you got here."

Y/N closed her eyes, exhaustion tugging her back under, but not before she heard the soft sound of Yrene's footsteps fading, heading to bring him in.

And just before sleep took her, she felt it again, faint, flickering through the bond.

A tremor of fear.

And something like hope.

The second Yrene told him "Y/N wants to see you," Fenrys stopped breathing.

For a heartbeat. Maybe two.

He didn't ask if she was sure. Didn't ask if Yrene meant it or if she was just trying to fix him like everyone else had tried to. He just stood there like a male caught between execution and salvation.

And then he moved.

The walk to the room was a blur, he barely remembered his feet carrying him. Only that his heart was pounding, his palms sweating, every part of him screaming to run the other way.

Because she was alive.

But she wanted to see him.

And he didn't know if that was a mercy or a punishment.

He stopped at the entrance, fingers hovering by the flap. He could smell her blood--dried, but still sharp--and something inside him howled at the scent. He shoved it down. Stepped inside.

And stopped.

The world fell silent. There she was.

Pale. Still. Wrapped in linen and resting like her body had been carved from broken porcelain. Her chest rose in shallow, too-careful breaths. A faint line of bandages ran beneath the edge of her tunic, and her skin looked like it had been drained of everything warm.

Fenrys stared.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white.

This is what you did.

He didn't move closer. Couldn't. Just stood there at the treshold, feeling like he was contaminating the space just by breathing in it. She looked like she'd fought death itself and barely won.

Because of him.

He wanted to fall to his knees. Beg. Apologize until the air ran out.

But all he could do was stare.

And then, soft, raw, barely a whisper-

"Fen..."

His name.

He closed his eyes. And took one shaking step forward.

Then another.

Close enough to see the flutter of her eyelashes, the too-slow rise of her chest. But still, still, he stayed just out of reach. One wrong move, and he might break her. One wrong move, and he might break himself.

Y/N blinked up at him, her lips parted in a small, wincing smile. "Yo're here," she whispered.

His throat tightened. "You...asked for me."

"Of course I did," she said softly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I knew you would run off to punish yourself."

"Y/N- "

"No," she said, firmer now, despite the rasp in her voice. "Don't do that. Don't tell yourself this was your fault."

He looked away. "You jumped in front of me."

"I chose to."

"You shouldn't have had to."

Her hand twitched slightly atop the blanket, like she meant to reach for him but couldn't quite manage it. "You froze," she said gently. "Because your body remembered things it was never meant to survive. You were trained to hesitate. To obey. What happened out there wasn't your fault, Fenrys. You are one of the greatest warriors I have ever gotten to know. Your name is literally mentioned as a legend alongside Rowan and Lorcan."

He swallowed hard, jaw tight. "I'm a gods-damned curse, Y/N. Everyone I love ends up like...like this. Or worse. You're only lying here because you are tied to me now, and the bond doesn't know how to choose someone who deserves better."

Her eyes softened, shining even under the low candlelight.

"You think the bond made me love you?" she asked. "Fenrys, I loved you before we even knew it was there."

He shook his head, fingers trembling at his sides. "You shouldn't have to carry this. I can't give you what you deserve. I can't even- touch you without thinking I'll ruin it."

She let out a soft breath. "You don't ruin things. You protect them. Even when it hurts you."

"I didn't protect you."

"You did." Her voice lowered again, gentler. "Every day since you let me in. Every time you let yourself laugh. Every time you fought against the voice in your head that told you not to feel anything at all."

He stared at her.

"I watched you come out of that darkness," she whispered. "Bit by bit. Letting yourself be soft with me, even when it terrified you."

That was the moment.

That line.

Like she'd reached into his chest and touched something raw, something barely held together.

Fenrys broke.

His knees hit the floor with a quiet thud beside her bed, and before he could stop himself, he leaned forward, just enough to rest his head gently against her hip, arms stiff at his sides. His shoulders trembled as his breathing fractured. The tears came silent, furious, unforgiving.

And then...

Her hand, weak but sure, threaded into his hair.

Not to pull. Not to guide.

Just to be there.

He let out a choked sound, not even a word.

"You're not a curse," she murmured, stroking gently. "You're just a male who's been through hell...and still knows how to love."

More tears spilled.

"You're allowed to be loved back, Fen."

His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket like it might keep him anchored. Like she might disappear if he let go.

But she didn't.

She stayed.

The storm had passed.

Not entirely. Not forever. But enough.

Fenrys sat beside her bed now, no longer afraid to be close. One of her hands rested lightly in his, and he held it like it was something sacred, because it was.

Her breathing had evened out, the pain dulling just enough for her to stay awake, her thumb tracing idle circles on his skin.

He still hadn't let go.

He couldn't.

"I meant what I said," she murmured, her voice steadier now. "We'll get through this. Together."

His throat tightened again, but he nodded. "I...I want to believe that."

"You can."

"I want to be better. For you. As your mate."

She gave him a look--wry and warm. "You already are."

He shook his head, long hair falling into his eyes. “No. Not yet. But I swear I will be. No more running. No more disappearing when it gets hard. I’ll face it, with you.”

She smiled, soft and sleepy. "Good. Because I'm not letting you go."

A breath of silence passed between them.

Then-

"So..." she said, a little too casually. "What happened to the asshole who stabbed me?"

Fenrys blinked. Then leaned back slightly to look at her--really look at her. Gods, even half-dead she was the most breathtaking thing he'd ever seen.

He could feel his hair a mess, untied and falling over his shoulders, face unshaven, eyes red--but her gaze didn’t waver. Didn’t flinch.

He smirked. Just a little. "What do you think?"

She groaned. "Ugh. So he's dead then."

"Y/N." his voice dropped low, deadly serious now. "He hurt my mate."

There was a pause.

"Of course I killed him."

She rolled her eyes with the kind of fondness that made his chest ache. "Well...I'd be worried if you hadn't."

"Ripped his throat out," he said offhandedly.

She snorted. "Romantic."

He leaned forward, brushing his knuckles against her cheek. "Only for you."

Their eyes met again, no more shields, no more hiding. Just two survivors, broken in places, but whole together.

She whispered, "I love you."

His breath caught.

And then, voice low and full of everything he couldn't say all at once, he replied-

"I love you more than I'll ever be able to tell you."

She smiled, eyes fluttering shut, exhaustion pulling at her again.

But her fingers stayed laced with his.

And this time, he stayed, too.

----------------------------------------------------------

[moonlitstoriess]

Hi moonie, how are you? Hope you are having an amazing time so far! Could you please make a crescent city boys text message type of reaction fic? Maybe their reactions to us pranking them by saying we want to break up?

Thank you so much if you write it🥹😚

Crescent city boys reactions to your break up prank texts

A/N: hi love, I am doing great! Hope you are too:) I hope this suits your taste. Enjoy😚

See masterlist

[moonlitstoriess]

could you do eris x fem!reader that was previously with az with lots of angst 🙏

Crafted by Flame- Initial Azriel, eventual Eris x fem!reader (1/2)

Summary: Y/N is a quiet but skilled healer in Velaris, known for tending wounds both physical and emotional. When Azriel shows up bloodied and silent after a mission, their connection begins in the soft hush of her clinic, built on shared pain, slow trust, and unspoken longing. But as she gives more of herself to him, his silence becomes a wall she can't break through, until love turns to ache and she’s forced to walk away before it destroys her.

Warnings: mentions of injuries, fluff in the beginning, angst, no happy ending in this part

A/N: here you go, anon! so sorry for the delay, I had been going through a mental block(i literally wrote a story for this but then completely deleted it cuz it looked boring and had to redo it all over again) so I took some time off for myself in order to come back with a more creative mindset! hope you enjoy it<3

See masterlist

Part 2 here

Velaris breathed softly in the morning, golden light spilling over cobblestone streets, the chill of dawn in the air. The city was still waking, shops just opening their doors, and the river sang its endless song through the heart of the city. In a narrow corner off a quiet street, nestled between a florist and a tailor's shop, Y/N unlocked the door to her clinic.

It wasn't much, just a few shelves lined with vials and salves, herbs strung up to dry, a single worn chair by the front window. But, it was hers. Peaceful. Steady.

She lit a candle on the windowsill out of habit, the flame flickering against the glass as the first rays of sunlight warmed the floor. Velaris was a city of dreamers, but Y/N had never needed much to feel content. A place to help, to mend, to be useful. And for a while, that had been enough.

Until the night he came in, cloaked in blood, shadows curling behind him like smoke, and eyes so unreadable they felt like silence made flesh.

Y/N hadn't expected to meet the infamous Shadowsinger, not like that and certainly not in her doorway at midnight.

He looked more myth than male, tall and broad-shouldered, blood soaking through torn leathers, one wing slightly askew. The shadows that coiled around his feet shifted restlessly, reacting to her presence, her heartbeat, the moonlight spilling from her window. But he didn't flinch. He just stood there, silent and still, as if debating whether to cross the threshold.

Y/N said nothing at first. Years of tending to the broken had taught her when to speak, and when to simply wait.

"Heard you are the best healer in this part of Velaris. I didn't know where else to go," he said at last, voice low and rough, like it had been dragged across stone.

She stepped aside without a word, holding the door open.

Inside, the clinic was warm with the scent of dried rosemary, the remnants of soft music humming from an old record tucked behind the counter. He moved like someone unused to being tended to, gaze flickering around the room as if searching for exits, or maybe threats.

"Sit," she said gently, motioning to the long bench near the back, where she usually worked on the worse injuries.

To her surprise, he did.

She crossed the room quickly, gathering salves, clean cloth, and a bowl of hot water from the kettle she always kept simmering. When she returned, Azriel had shrugged off his jacket with some difficulty, blood already drying around a gash that ran from his collarbone to the top of his ribs. Her eyes flickered to the torn flesh, then up to meet his.

"Bad day?" she asked softly.

He gave her a ghost of a smile, humorless and tired. "Something like that."

She didn't pry. Instead, she knelt beside him, soaking the cloth in warm water before beginning to clean around the wound. He didn't make a sound as she worked, though she felt the tension in his body, the way his muscles locked under her touch.

Up close, he looked less like a legend and more like a man who hadn't slept in days. Shadows curled protectively over his shoulders, like they weren't sure whether to trust her. She ignored them and kept her touch steady.

"I've never treated the Spymaster before," she said after a long stretch of silence.

"You're not treating the spymaster," he murmured. "Just a male who got sloppy."

Y/N paused, the cloth in her hand hovering above his skin. Then she dipped it again into the bowl, gently pressing it back into his wound.

"Even legends bleed, I guess."

He huffed a laugh, quiet and surprised. The shadows stilled.

"Do they all come to you?" he asked suddenly, his voice barely louder than the crackling of a candle.

Y/N looked up at him. "Who?"

"The ones who don't want to be seen. Who want to hurt quietly."

"Usually it's normal customers but sometimes," she said softly. "They usually don't say much. Jus...sit, bleed and leave."

"And you let them?"

"I don't need to be needed," she murmured, scooping from some of her own handmade healing salves. "I just help where I can. That's my job."

Azriel's jaw tightened slightly, but he nodded once, like he understood.

Maybe he did.

She worked in silence again, stitching the wound with delicate practiced movements He didn’t so much as wince. When she brushed too close to the edge of his scarred skin, old burns and battle-worn memories mapped across his torso like a story no one had ever dared to read aloud, he didn’t flinch, but he watched her.

Watched her like he was waiting for her to turn away in disgust.

She didn't.

And that, he seemed to realize, might have been more dangerous than any blade.

She offered him tea before he left. He didn't take it but lingered by the door for a long moment after handing her the coins, eyes flicking over the small room again.

"You keep a candle by the window," he said.

"I do."

"Why?"

"So that people know they are not alone."

Azriel stared at the flame a little too long.

"That's dangerous," he said quietly.

Y/N tilted her head. "Hope usually is."

That earned the faintest twitch of his mouth. Not quiet a smile, but close enough to make her chest ache. He didn't say goodbye. He just stepped out into the night, shadows folding around him like second skin.

But a week later, he came back.

No blood this time. Just a shadowed look and a bottle of wine she never opened. He didn't speak much, sat in the same place, on the same bench and stared at the candle in the window while she restocked tinctures and pretended not to watch him.

That's how it all began.

Not with grand confessions or kisses.

But with silence.

With shadows.

And with a single, flickering flame that neither of them knew would eventually burn everything down.

He didn't come every week.

Sometimes it was a few days. Sometimes nearly a month. But he always came back.

Never injured after that first night, not physically at least. Sometimes he brought her strange things: rare herbs from far-off corners of the realm, wrapped in cloth and wordlessly left on her worktable. Once, he also sent her a cracked volume of ancient healing techniques in Old Fae.

Y/N never asked why.

Azriel wasn't the type you asked why.

He rarely spoke more than a few sentences with each visit. But he always lingered. Always sat in the same spot, that worn bench near the back, near the warmth of her fire but never too close. She'd go about her work, organizing herbs, grinding powders, and feel the weight of his gaze following her, like her presence calmed something inside him that he hadn't known was restless.

He never smiled. But she noticed his breathing slowed when he was here. His shoulders dropped. His shadows didn't twitch and pace like they used to, they curled around him like they were resting.

One night, late into winter, he came soaked in rain.

No blood. No bruises. Just dripping from head to toe in rain, his wings weighed down with water. Y/N had been about to close the place when the bell above the door jingled softly.

"You'll catch your death like that," she said, not looking up.

Azriel pulled off his soaked cloak and hung it by the fire without a word. She glanced at him--his hair damp, eyes darker than usual--and sighed.

She tossed him a towel. He caught it easily.

"You look like shit."

His voice was hoarse. "That's generous,"

She turned back to her shelf, smirking. "I'm a healer. I've seen worse."

She didn't ask where he'd been. Why he looked like he hadn't slept. She just made tea, quietly, without asking, and handed him a mug, their fingers brushing for the briefest second.

His shadows stilled entirely at the contact.

They sat in silence that night, side by side on the bench, both watching the candle flicker in the window.

Rain tapped against the glass, the city outside a blur of mist and starlight.

It wasn't comfortable.

It was something else. Raw. Charged. Like something unspoken was pressing against the air between them.

"I don't know why I come here," he said suddenly.

Y/N didn't look at him. "You don't need to."

"I think I do."

She finally turned. Met his eyes. "Then say it."

A long pause. He looked down at the mug in his hands like it might hold the answer.

Then, so quietly she almsot missed it, he said, "It's the only place I don't feel like a weapon."

After that night, everything shifted.

Subtly. Sharply.

She eventually gave him a second pair of keys to her workshop for cases where he wished to be alone.

He accepted it with a small smile.

Sometimes he stayed long enough to fall asleep in the chair by the fire. She'd find him there in the morning, shadows curled around him like a blanket, face peaceful in a way it never was in public.

Other times, he'd disappear for weeks, and when he returned, there was something colder in his eyes, like he'd buried himself again and didn't know how to crawl out.

She never asked for more. Never tried to fix him.

But she waited. Always.

Until, one night, he stood in her doorway longer than usual. His face unreadable. The candlelight made his eyes look golden.

"You make it hard," he said.

Y/N swallowed. "Hard to what?"

"To stay away."

She didn't expect to see him again the next night.

But he came anyway.

The door creaked open just after sunset. No warning. No knock.

She turned from her desk, halfway through labeling a new tincture, to find him there--hood lowered, jaw set like he was bracing for a fight.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately.

"For what?"

"For saying something I shouldn't have said. For making it harder."

She stepped forward slowly. "Why was it wrong?"

His throat bobbed, muscles tense under his leathers. "Because I'm not who you think I am. I don't know how to- " he gestured vaguely between them, frustration flickering in his eyes. "do this."

"I never asked you to."

Silence stretched.

"I know," he said. "And that makes it worse."

She moved closer. Not touching, not yet. But close enough that she could see the tiny scar beneath his jaw, the way his shadows whispered restlessly at his back, reacting to her nearness.

"I'm not asking you for anything," she said, her voice soft but steady. "But if you keep showing up in this shop, Azriel, you need to stop pretending you don't want to be here."

His eyes met hers then, and something in them finally gave.

Like a dam breaking.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out--not to pull her in, not to take--but to touch, barely brushing his fingers against her wrist. Testing. Waiting.

She didn't move away.

Instead, she stepped into him, one breath at a time, until they were chest to chest and there was nowhere else to look but into the eyes that had haunted her sleep for months.

"You're not a weapon," she whispered softly.

His hand came to her waist. Tentative. Reverent. "Then why do I only feel real when I'm with you?"

She didn't have time to answer.

Because he kissed her.

It wasn't violent, rough or possessive like she'd imagined it might be.

It was slow. Careful. Like he was terrified he might break her--or worse, that she might break him.

His shadows curled around her like warmth instead of cold, brushing over her arms, her spine, like a second set of hands. He held her like he didn't quite believe he was allowed to.

And she kissed him like he was something more than what the world had made of him.

When they pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, she felt the truth settle in her chest like gravity.

This wasn't casual. This wasn't safe.

This was the beginning of something she wouldn't walk away from unchanged.

And maybe, just maybe, neither would he.

He stayed after the kiss.

Not the way she had expected. Not tangled in bedsheets or curled beside her in the soft hush of dawn. But he didn't vanish like smoke either. He sat by her window while she brewed tea, watched her move around the room like he'd never seen domestic peace before. Like he didn't know what to do with it.

She offered him a mug. He took it without speaking, his gloved hands lingering around the warmth like it was foreign to him.

That's how things shifted. Quietly. Without definition. But undeniably.

He never said the word "relationship". Never reached for her hand in public. But he came to her.

Sometimes with wounds. Sometimes with silence. Sometimes with nothing but the aching need to just exist in her space, like being near her anchored him to something he didn't have a name for.

And Y/N didn't ask for more. Not yet.

A few weeks later, she took him to her home.

Not her clinic--her home. Tucked at the edge of a quiet district in Velaris, Ivy curling around the windows, books stacked in leaning piles, a fire always burning low in the hearth. He paused at her doorstep longer than necessary, like stepping inside something so soft might burn him.

It didn't.

He fit. Too well, maybe.

She made soup. He sat at her kitchen table and slowly peeled off his gloves.

He stayed the night again. On the couch this time, stretched out under a woven blanket she'd had since forever. In the morning, she found him flipping through a book of poetry on her shelf--not reading, just holding it like he was trying to remember how to touch something without destroying it.

Their most intimate moments weren't physical. Not yet.

It was her brushing her finger along the curve of the scar on his shoulder, and him not pulling away. It was him asking, "What was your childhood like?" and actually listening to her answer.

It was her pressing a cup of tea into his hand and saying softly, "You don't have to talk tonight." and him breathing out like she'd just handed him something sacred.

One night, they sat curled on the floor near the fire, her legs tucked beneath her, his wings draped over the rug in quiet surrender. She'd just told him a story from her training days--how she'd once mixed a muscle salve backward and accidentally gave a client the worst three-day cramp of their life.

He laughed. Actually laughed.

Not a hollow sound. Not a breath. But a real, teeth-baring laugh that startled both of them.

He sobered quickly, shadows curling back around his shoulders like a shawl. He leaned his head back against the wall and let out a long breath.

"You're too good for me," he said, like a confession.

Y/N looked at him carefully. "But you don't believe you're good for me."

"No," he said immediately with no hesitation. "I've done too much. Seen too much."

Her voice was soft. "That doesn't make you unworthy of being loved."

Azriel didn't answer right away. The fire crackled between them.

Then, as if trying to pivot away from the weight of it, he said, "You'd like them, I think. My family."

Y/N smiled faintly. "From all that I have heard, I know that I like Mor the most."

He smirked, but his voice gentled. "Mor is...light. Even when she pretends not to be. She laughs like it's armour, but it's real. She loves hard. Too hard, sometimes."

He paused, then added, "Cassian is loud, reckless, and loyal to the bone. He'd throw himself off a cliff for someone without asking why."

"And Rhysand?"

Azriel’s expression shifted. Something older there. “Strategic. Sharp. Smiles more than he should. He’s not perfect, but he tries. And that matters more than people think.”

She nodded. "Feyre?"

“Strong. But not in the way people expect. She was broken once, but she put herself back together. She reminds me of you.”

That startled her. "Me?"

He nodded. "You both build things with your hands. And you see people--even when they don't want to be seen."

She didn't speak for a long time. Then quietly, almost like a memory, Y/N opened her mouth.

"My mother always taught me something. She said, ‘If you make your heart out of glass, it will break a lot. If you make it out of iron, it will rust. That's why make it out of water, so that those who enter it will get lost, and only those who can swim will be saved—while those who can’t will drown.’”

Azriel's eyes were on her, dark and still.

"I think I have been drowning for a long time," he said.

Her voice didn't waver. "Then maybe it's time you learn how to swim."

The first time he stayed in her bed, he didn't touch her. Not yet.

Not at first.

They lay side by side, barely touching. His shadows curling along the edge of the sheets like they were afraid to cross the space between them. She heard his breathing, slow, careful, controlled. Too controlled.

Y/N reached out slowly, brushing the back of her fingers against his cheek.

Azriel flinched.

Not violently. Not like he feared her. But like he feared himself.

"I won't break," she whispered.

"I might," he replied.

But he didn't. Not that night.

He kissed her with his whole body--slow, reverent, like every part of him was learning how to hold something without leaving scars. When he touched her, it was with aching restraint. As if he'd never been allowed to be gentle before. As if gentleness was a language no one had ever spoken to him until now.

He didn't say he loved her.

But it didn't matter to her.

He stayed wrapped around her until dawn, shadows resting against her spine like a heartbeat.

For a while, it was enough.

Days passed in a kind of golden haze--stolen mornings where he made her tea without asking, whispered jokes under his breath that made her laugh too loud, rare smiles that crept up on his face like they surprised even him. He fixed her broken drawer. She mended a tear in his wings.

They didn't talk about what they were.

But they were.

And still...he never brought her to the House of Wind.

Only came to her after the sunset.

Never walked beside her.

Never spoke her name around others.

He talked about his family, sure. Told her about Feyre’s art studio, Cassian’s latest combat disaster, Elain’s garden that had become a small jungle overnight.

But when she asked, softly, if they knew about her...he looked away.

"They wouldn't understand," he said once.

And she nodded, trying to pretend that it didn't sting.

She told herself to be patient.

He was trying.

Trying to let her in, piece by piece. And she could see the effort. Every shadow he let her touch, every night he stayed instead of disappearing into the dark.

But still, sometimes-

Sometimes he'd disappear for days.

No note. No warning. Just gone.

And when he came back, there'd be a new wound. A colder look in his eyes. More silence than usual.

And she'd let him in. Again and again.

One night, she waited by the window until dawn. When he finally appeared in the alley below, limping slightly, eyes bruised and hollow, she didn't ask where he'd been. She knew he wouldn't answer anyway.

She just opened the door and stepped aside.

He paused on the threshold, shadows writhing restlessly, guilt clinging to him like smoke.

"You don't have to keep waiting," he said quietly but coldly.

"I know," she whispered.

But she still did.

The intimacy hadn’t gone. But something else had arrived--the ache of wanting more. Of feeling like she was waiting in a house half-lived in, filled with a love half-shared.

She told herself it was fine. Love came in different forms. But sometimes, in the moments when he held her at night and didn’t speak, she felt like a secret he was still deciding whether to keep.

She waited again.

Two weeks this time. No words. No signs. Just a silence loud enough to choke on.

When the door finally creaked open, she was sitting at the table, a book in her lap she hadn't read a word out of. The candle had long since burned low.

Azriel stepped inside like a ghost. Blood stained his shoulder. His jaw was bruised. His shadows were twitching violently, refusing to settle.

The same routine all over again.

"You didn't write," she said quietly.

"I didn't have time."

"You always say that."

He didn’t answer. Just stood there, still wrapped in whatever darkness he’d dragged home with him.

Y/N stood. "Azriel, I can't keep doing this."

That got his attention. His eyes snapped to hers, cold and guarded. “Doing what?”

“Waiting. Wondering if I’m something you regret every time you leave.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re not.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m the only one trying?”

He stepped forward, voice sharp. “Do you think it’s easy for me? Being with you?”

Her heart stuttered. “What?”

Azriel didn’t stop. His voice rising now, venom curling at the edges of each word. “You think I can just pretend I’m normal? That I can walk around in the sun with you, like I'm not made of shadow and blood and secrets? You don’t get it, Y/N.”

“I’m trying to!” she cried. “But you won’t let me in. You treat me like I’m this quiet little place you come to rest, but never stay. I love you, Azriel, but I’m not your safehouse.”

Silence.

And then he said it.

“I didn’t ask you to love me.”

She froze.

His eyes were dark, unreadable. His next words were colder than anything she'd ever heard from him.

“You’re not part of my world, Y/N. You never were. You’re just… soft. Fragile. You wouldn’t last a day in it.”

The air left her lungs.

He kept going. Couldn’t seem to stop himself now. “You think you understand me because I let you stitch my wounds? Because I sleep in your bed when I can’t stand my own thoughts? You don’t know me. Not really.”

Y/N stared at him, heart cracking open. “That’s not true.”

He laughed bitterly. “It is. You fell in love with the version of me who sits by your fire. Not the one who tortures spies. Not the one who’s left entire camps in ash.”

“Then why did you come here at all?” she whispered, voice trembling.

Azriel’s face twisted. “Because I was lonely. And you were quiet. And kind. And I thought maybe, maybe, I could forget what I was for a while.”

Tears blurred her vision. She couldn’t breathe. So he used her.

He watched her fall apart and didn’t move.

“I waited for you,” she said, voice breaking. “I gave you every soft part of me. I let myself drown in you, and you- ”

Her voice shook as she whispered, “You were never going to stay, were you?”

Azriel didn’t answer.

And that silence was worse than any insult.

She nodded slowly, her heart hollow. “You can go.”

“I didn’t- ”

“Go.”

And this time, he did.

No shadows lingered behind.

Just the echo of the door closing.

And a candle, still flickering in the window, for someone who would never come back.

So Azriel let himself drown, after all.

The silence was louder than his footsteps had ever been.

Azriel didn't return. No letter. No knock at her door. No shadow whispering through the window in the middle of the night.

Just nothing.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into over a month.

The bed stayed cold. The chair by the fire sat empty. The cracked teacup he'd once used sat untouched on the shelf, because she couldn't bring herself to throw it away.

At first, Y/N tried to rationalize it.

Maybe he was on a mission. Maybe something happened. Maybe he wanted to come back but couldn't.

But after the second week of silence, she stopped lying to herself.

He had left. And he was not coming back.

She didn’t cry loudly. Didn’t scream. Didn’t fall apart in the way people expect you to when your heart breaks.

She simply quieted.

The candle in her window still flickered at night, but only out of habit.

She kept working. Healing. Mixing herbs. Taking care of anyone who came to her door.

She smiled. She made tea. She went to the market on Thursdays and picked out fresh sage like she had before him.

But something inside her had changed.

Like someone had rearranged her soul and forgot to put it back right.

Two months later, she saw him again.

A quiet café near the Sidra. The kind she rarely visited, but had wandered into that day on a whim, needing to be anywhere but her own shop.

She was halfway through a book and a cup of tea when her eyes lifted and-

There he was.

Azriel.

Sitting by the window and smiling.

Not at her, at someone else.

A female with soft brown hair, tilting her head as she laughed. He leaned in when she spoke. His hand rested near hers on the table. No shadows. No armor. Just him--calm, composed, golden in the sunlight.

Public. Unhidden.

Y/N didn't move. Didn't breathe.

He hadn't even looked her way.

But the ache that ripped through her chest was sharp and unrelenting. Like something had been cut open all over again. She sat there, frozen, watching the male who once couldn’t even say her name in front of others now smile like it cost him nothing.

And it hit her: He was someone else's quiet now

She left the café without finishing her tea.

That night, she didn't light the candle.

Not out of bitterness. But because she realized she no longer needed it to signal anyone home.

There was no one to wait for.

Only herself.

The rebuilding wasn’t dramatic.

It was slow. Painfully slow.

But she did it.

She replanted the herbs that had wilted. She cleared the cluttered corner of her clinic where Azriel used to sit and turned it into a space for children’s visits.

She wore red lipstick one day, just because. She laughed too loud at a terrible joke the blacksmith made. She bought herself a necklace from a market stall just because she liked the way it shimmered in the sun.

She didn’t pretend she was fine.

She just kept moving.

Piece by broken piece, she became someone new.

Someone he wouldn’t recognize.

It was an ordinary morning.

The sun broke lazily over Velaris, golden and slow. The scent of fresh bread wafted in from the bakery two doors down, and Y/N was humming under her breath as she lined new vials along the front shelf--lavender oil, hawthorn extract, a new bruise salve she'd been perfecting.

Quiet. Steady. Safe.

And then-

The bell above the door chimed.

She didn't look up. "Give me one second- "

The hair on her arms rose.

Three males stood in her doorway. All dressed in deep, polished armour, their expressions unreadable--but what caught her attention wasn't their weapons or their silence.

It was the emblem.

Burning red. A flame curling into a twisted crown.

Autumn.

Y/N straightened, heart skittering.

"I- Can I help you?" she asked, voice caught between politeness and caution.

The lead male didn't answer. He stepped aside with military precision, nodding sharply to the others.

"Clear the room."

Without hesitation, the other two males began moving through the shop, checking the back door, lifting curtains, glancing at shelves like her jars of sage and willowbark were some kind of threat.

“Excuse me?” Y/N demanded, pulse spiking. “What is this? Who are you? Why are you- ”

“Quiet.”

It wasn’t shouted. But the word cut like a blade.

The lead guard stood tall, eyes forward, posture rigid as stone. Like he was awaiting something. Someone.

Y/N took a step back, fingers curling behind her against the edge of the table.

When the second and third males returned to the front and gave a clipped, “Clear,” the leader nodded once--and then stepped aside.

And he walked in.

Not the male she expected.

Not someone from Velaris. Not even someone she recognized from polite court gossip.

He entered like the shop belonged to him--like the sunlight from the window was his spotlight and he was simply hitting his mark.

Auburn hair. Amber eyes. Broad shoulders wrapped in rich, red velvet.

His presence was heat and arrogance and silk layered over steel.

“Apologies, miss,” the male said smoothly, voice like warm wine, “for the dramatic entrance. It seems my reputation insists on making a scene, even when I try to be discreet.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“I’m on a diplomatic visit,” he continued without waiting for her to recover. “Tiresome business, really. But I took a rather unfortunate fall while hunting yesterday.” He lifted his left arm--bare now at the wrist, a thin line of dried blood along the skin.

“I was told,” he said, eyes sweeping the shop--and then her--“that you make some of the best healing salves in Velaris.”

He smiled then. And stars, it wasn’t kind. It was charming, yes. Dangerous. Coiled with amusement. Like he already knew she didn’t trust him--and was utterly delighted by it.

“I thought I’d see for myself,” he added, stepping farther into the shop, brushing past her like silk against skin.

Y/N moved to speak, to stop him, to ask--who are you? why are you really here?--but the words caught in her throat.

And the male turned, that smile curling into a slow smirk as he met her wide eyes.

“Well?” he asked, with a glint in his gaze that could only be described as a challenge. “Got anything fitting for a prince?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Anyone wishing to be tagged for the second part, let me know!

[moonlitstoriess]

Binding Lies- Eris Vanserra x fem!reader (mini-series) part 11

Summary: When Y/N, Azriel's secret half-sister who lives far away, and Eris Vanserra form a strategic contractual marriage to further their own agendas, what begins as a carefully crafted arrangement soon becomes more complicated. As they pretend to be a perfect couple, the lines between duty and desire blur, and neither is prepared for the consequences.

Warnings: suggestive content, no smut (for now), Y/N and Az interact once again!! slight mention of injury and violence

See masterlist

Previous part

This wasn't a random fire. No, this was precision.

Someone had made it past three layers of his personal wards--wards layered in his own magic, runes carved in languages no one should've been able to read. Someone had known exactly what to take. Not his ceremonial letters. Not his official court documents.

They had gone for his plans. But worst of all...Alaric's files.

The thick stack of parchment his spy handed him just hours ago. The ones he hadn't had time to read yet. The ones that held everything Alaric had uncovered about her.

Y/N.

He hadn't told her. He hadn't even decided if he would tell her yet. He needed time--time to understand how to use the truth, time to decipher what her parentage might mean for his plans, for her safety, for them.

And now....gone.

The cold dread in his stomach was a lead weight. Slowly, Eris crossed the room, kneeling near what had once been the ironwood chest where he'd stored those files.

Only the lock remained. Melted through, bent inward. A message.

His eyes swept over the mess. Every parchment turned to ash. Every strategic blueprint gone. Nothing else touched. Not a single book out of place. Not a scroll disturbed unless it mattered.

He gritted his teeth. Someone had walked into his world, spit on his defenses, and burned the truths he hadn't yet faced.

Why?

To expose him? Y/N? Or even both?

To weaponise it?

He didn't know And the unknown, for a man like Eris Vanserra, was the most dangerous threat of all.

He stood slowly, each movement precise. Controlled. His thoughts raced behind his eyes like wildfire. There was no panic--he didn't allow himself that luxury. Only strategy.

Someone in the palace knows too much. Or worse...someone outside the palace has already made their move.

He needed to speak to Alaric.

Eris moved to the hearth and pressed a concealed rune in the stone. It glowed faintly under his touch--a failsafe buried deep, one that hadn't been triggered during the attack. So they hadn't come through the door.

The duplicates, the copies of all of Eris' documents were safe. All except Y/N's files. Alaric hadn't yet given him a copy of those.

Fools, thinking that Eris would only have one document for everything. He is always ahead.

His lips curled. He needed answers--and fast.

But more than that, he needed to make a decision about her. Y/N.

He hadn't told her that he knew she was Azriel's half-sister. Hadn't told Azriel either. And now that someone else had the files, someone else could use them--against her, against him, against Rhysand and his puppets.

He turned away from the ruins and muttered under his breath. "You want to play? let's play then."

Then he walked out, silent and composed as always--though the fire building in his chest could ignite kingdoms.

Y/N sat curled up on the couch near the window, legs drawn in as the afternoon light filtered lazily through the gauzy curtains. Her mind had been racing, heart a storm beneath the calm mask she wore.

Samira stepped in without knocking, shutting the door with a quiet click. "You are not going to believe what Niera just told me."

Y/N straightened, the fatigue in her bones vanishing in an instant. "What did she say?"

Samira lowered herself into the armchair across from her. "Not much. At least, not enough to satisfy you, I'm guessing."

Y/N gave her a sharp look. "Samira- "

"I'm just saying." She held up a hand. "She said the symbol on the card...it doesn't belong to this realm. That's her exact wording. And the enchantments wrapped around it? Ancient. She found out that someone--or something--intentionally buried part of its magic."

Y/N's heart clenched, her fingers digging into the fabric of her robes. "So nothing concrete, then," she muttered bitterly. "I need more than guesswork, Samira. I need answers. Actual ones."

Samira didn't flinch. "That's why I said...what if we do something too?"

Y/N raised a brow. "Do something?"

Samira leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I have a lead. A theory. But it involves sneaking out. Both of us."

Y/N blinked, stunned. "Oh wow. Miss Protocol-and-Etiquette wants to sneak out of the palace? Who are you and what have you done with my Samira?"

Samira rolled her eyes. "I'm serious."

Y/N chuckled but then sobered. "How do you even have a lead?"

"Did you forget who I am?" Samira replied with a smirk. "I'm not just some decorative lady-in-waiting. My family is one of the oldest in Montesere. We've been expected to learn every detail of foreign courts, their power structures, their myths--even their shadows."

Y/N tilted her head, intrigued despite herself.

Samira continued. "When I was seventeen, I stumbled upon a series of obscure mentions. Most people wrote them off as folklore, myths, stories made up to scare everyone--fortune cards hidden across courts, powerful ones. One particular mention said that in Autumn, during the Reign of Fire, there was a hidden deck of cards used to bind truth and fate. Just whispers, really...but something about it stuck with me."

"And now," Y/N murmured, "It doesn't feel like just a story."

Samira nodded. "Exactly."

They were both quiet for a moment.

"And how do you expect both of us to get out of here, again?" Y/N asked finally, eyes narrowing.

Samira gave a sly smile. "I've been watching the guards. There's a change in shifts every third hour. One hallway isn't warded anymore--probably because of the repairs they are doing in the west wing. If we time it right..."

Y/N smirked. "Very well, mastermind. Let's do it. But if we get caught- "

"We won't," Samira interrupted, her eyes gleaming. "We've made it through worse."

Y/N let out a quiet breath, something settling inside her. For the first time in days, her pulse stirred not with dread, but with purpose.

Tonight, they were going hunting for answers.

"Samira," Y/N said suddenly, eyes gleaming with the kind of determination that wasn't there a few minutes ago, "let's go on a walk."

Samira blinked. "A what?"

"A walk," Y/N said, already moving towards the wardrobe, to find something casual enough to pass for 'still recovering' but not so pathetic she looked like she crawled out of bed. "Some fresh air. I've been cooped up like a dying swan. Let's go."

"You're pretending to be injured, remember?" Samira said, one brow arched as she helped Y/N get dressed.

"Yes, pretending. I think its even more suspicious if I lie around like a corpse for much longer," Y/N replied smoothly. "Besides, if anyone asks, I'm taking short steps. Nothing strenuous."

Samira muttered something colorful under her breath but didn't object as she wrapped Y/N in a long outer cloak. "Fine. But we're not doing anything insane. We need to save energy."

"No promises," Y/N smiled.

The grounds were quieter than usual. With most of the court occupied in preparation for something Y/N had no idea about and did not care enough about to ask Samira, fewer eyes trailed their path. Red and gold leaves fluttered around them as they wandered beyond the palace walls, veering into a lesser-known part of the estate where stone pathways turned to mossy ground and thick woods.

It was then that they found it--hidden between jagged rocks and the thick branches of a drooping willow.

Y/N stopped dead in her tracks. "Oh..."

"What is it?" Samira asked, squinting past her.

Y/N stepped forward through the veil of vines. And there it was.

A cave.

No, not just a cave--a sanctuary.

The air shifted the moment they crossed the threshold. The walls opened up into a wide stone chamber, glowing with filtered light from a break in the ceiling. And in the middle of it all was a lake--still and dark, but crystalline where the sunlight touched it, illuminating the water with soft silver-blue ripples.

Y/N stood breathless at the edge. Then she turned.

"I want to swim."

Samira stared, wide eyed. "What?"

"I want to swim," Y/N repeated, eyes gleaming with something wild, something free. "Right now."

"You're insane."

"Possibly."

"What if someone sees you? You're healing from fractured ribs and- "

"You know I'm fine."

Samira narrowed her eyes. "This is undignified. You don't even know what's in that water."

Y/N's smirk was pure trouble. "So go be dignified over there. I'll be over here--naked and joyful."

"You're serious?" Samira asked as Y/N pulled off her cloak in a fluid motion.

"Deadly,"

"Mother above," Samira muttered, turning away as Y/N stripped off the last of her underlay. "You are definitely going to catch something."

"If I do, I'll make sure you nurse me back to health." Y/N called, her voice echoing with laughter.

She stepped into the water, sucking in a breath at the icy touch. The cold bit into her skin in the best way--sharp, awakening, real. Slowly, she let herself sink deeper, the water lapping at her shoulders, her collarbone, her neck.

Above her, the sunlight filtered through the cracked ceiling, casting ripples of light over her bare skin. Everything around her was quiet. Still.

Free.

She leaned back, floating effortlessly, hair drifting around her like shadowy strands in the water.

Somewhere behind her, Samira walked around the cave while grumbling about how careless Y/N was.

But Y/N didn't care.

For once, the world was just water, and breath, and light. And she was exactly where she wanted to be.

"...The second copies are hidden though. They are safe." Alaric said quietly, glancing around them as if the shadows might eavesdrop. "I'll retrieve them and bring them to you myself."

Eris's jaw clenched. "No. That can wait." His voice cut sharp through the cold air between them. "What matters now is finding who did this. We find them--we find the first copy of the files. All of them."

Including hers. "But above all, we find the identity of the intruder."

Alaric nodded. "I'll start right away. Whoever this was... they were skilled. Too skilled."

"Then be better." Eris said, eyes like burning embers. "You're the best at this, Alaric. So prove it."

There was nothing more to say. A nod of agreement, a flash of a shadowed grin, and then Alaric vanished into the thick of the woods.

Eris turned toward the hidden path that only a few in the entire court remembered. Twisting through burnt-orange trees and sun-drenched moss, it was a secret way he often used when he wanted to avoid the halls. His mind spun. Who could've bypassed his wards? Who knew what to target?

But the questions cut off the moment he spotted a familiar figure walking near a rock outcrop.

Samira?

Brows furrowing, Eris ducked behind the trees. What was she doing out here? She wasn't supposed to leave Y/N's side. Especially not when-

A splash echoed from the direction of the old cave.

Eris's body went still.

No.

No, no, no.

Without a word, he moved--silent, predator-quick, slipping through branches until the cave's entrance loomed before him. The splash came again, gentler this time. Then came the scent.

Her scent.

Wild, dark, intoxicating. As if the Calanmai fires has already begun burning inside him.

Eris stepped forward--and froze.

His mouth parted slightly, stunned. His pulse thundered through him like war drums. There, rising from the shimmering lake within the cave, was Y/N.

Water clung to every curve of her body. Her skin shimmered in the sunlight that poured in, casting her in gold and silver. Her back was to him, the delicate dip of her spine was visible as she stood, waist-deep droplets sliding down her bare skin like a lover's touch.

Then, without warning, she dove back into the water, vanishing beneath the surface with a smooth grace that stole the breath from his lungs.

Mine. The thought was savage, primal, forbidden.

The restraint he'd fought to keep for days--weeks--was fraying. Calanmai's pull stirred beneath his skin like wildfire, whispering dark promises in his ear.

She surfaced again, head breaking the water just beneath the shimmer of light, and turned.

Their eyes met. Her gaze was locked on his, freezing time.

She was ethereal, radiant...and his undoing.

And she had no idea he was already unraveling.

A scream nearly burst out of her throat as soon as her gaze locked with his--him--standing like a cursed statue at the cave entrance, water-glow casting golden halos across his red hair. But she swallowed it down and squealed instead, ducking further into the shimmering lake until only her nose and eyes peeked above the surface.

"What in the seven hells are you doing here?" she yelled, her voice bouncing off the stone walls.

Eris blinked once. Slowly. As if waking from some fever dream. "I could ask you the same thing," he said, shaking his head like he needed to knock some sense back into it.

"How did you even find me?"

He stepped closer, boots crunching lightly over damp stone. "I didn't. Seems like I'm just always drawn to wherever you decide to make poor life choices."

"Oh, please," she snapped. "Then leave!"

"Why?" He raised a brow. "It's not like I haven't seen a naked body before. And don't worry--I don't find swamp goblins particularly attractive."

She gasped. "Excuse me?"

He smirked. "You're excused."

Y/N narrowed her eyes. "Well, as long as you stay away from me, I'll consider myself blessed."

"Blessed?" he echoed. "Darling, if anyone's cursed in this situation, it's me."

She opened her mouth for a sharp retort but paused when his gaze lingered--not mocking now, not amused. Just...quiet. Intense. A flicker of something passed through his eyes that made her chest tighten.

"What?" she asked warily.

"You look stronger," he said softly. "Different than before."

The unexpected compliment disarmed her. She blinked. "Different...how?"

Eris tilted his head but didn't answer. She waited, but the moment passed, like all the others with him--unspoken things always left hanging between them.

She cleared her throat and sank a little deeper into the water. "You need to leave."

"Can't," he said lightly.

"Why not?"

"Because now that I've seen you in here, I'd be held responsible if you drowned or got mauled by a cave nymph."

"There are no cave nymphs in Autumn- "

"There are," he interrupted with a sly grin. "One is currently glaring at me and smells like cinnamon."

Y/N gaped at him, speechless.

"Samira!" Eris suddenly called, raising his voice towards the entrance.

"What?!" Samira's voice rang out a second later as she burst in. "Since when are you here- "

Her eyes flicked between Y/N in the water and Eris beside the lake. "You're kidding."

He ignored her tone completely. "Help her dress. Both of you return to the palace. Now."

Y/N's jaw dropped. "Wait, what?! You can't just- "

But Eris shot Samira a look. A silent order, sharp as steel. Y/N recognized that expression immediately--it meant don't argue.

Samira groaned. "Ugh. Fine."

"Unbelievable," Y/N muttered under her breath as Eris turned to leave. He didn't look back--only raised a hand in lazy farewell.

She scowled at his retreating figure and hissed. "That bastard."

Then she turned to Samira. "Whose side are you even on?"

Samira raised both brows. "I'm on side 'get the fuck out of this cursed court and go home before I loose my mind completely.'"

Y/N snorted. "Valid."

"Now come on, Your Nakedness. Let's get you out before you actually grow gills."

"I hate him."

"Sure you do," Samira said dryly, handing her a towel.

Y/N groaned as she stepped out of the water. "I do."

But her flushed cheeks said otherwise.

The forest wind cut sharp against Eris's face as he went through the hidden path that snaked between trees and moss-covered stones. The thunderous roar still echoing in his head wasn't from the wind.

It was her.

Y/N.

The image of her rising from the lake, crystalline water dripping from bare skin, back arched as if carved by the gods themselves, had burned into his skull. The way the sunlight filtered through the cave and gilded her form in silver and shadow--Mother above, he would never forget it. Not if he lived for centuries. Not even if the memories of this war-torn court faded into dust.

He had nearly walked into the water. Nearly let Calanmai's dark call consume him whole.

Because it wasn't just lust--it couldn't be. That excuse was far too simple. Too...convenient.

But he forced the thought back down his throat, where it lodged bitter and heavy. Calanmai. That was all. That cursed, primal time when instincts ran wild and logic ran dry. That was all this was.

Right?

He scoffed under his breath, pushing his hair back as the towering spires of the Autumn Court's palace crept into view ahead.

Focus.

He still had the meeting with Azriel tonight. The second one.

He'd offered a convincing reason, at least: fabricated unrest near the Autumn-Border shadows, suspicious troop movement, nothing concrete--but enough to get the Spymaster's attention. Azriel had agreed. Of course he had.

And Eris would use that moment, that sliver of opportunity, to observe.

To test him.

Eris's jaw clenched.

He should tell her. He should walk into her room and say it. Confess that he knows. That he sent a spy. That her whole life--her past--was now in his hands.

But another part of him, colder, more calculating, whispered: No.

This is a game, Eris. And she's on the board. You don't move the queen until you're ready.

He hated that thought more than he wanted to admit.

By the time he reached the hallway that led to Beron's chamber, his mind was still a hurricane. He paused at the grand double doors, his reflection warped in the dark gloss of the wood. His mask slipped back into place--the sharp, unfeeling heir of Autumn.

He would face his father. See if any information has reached Beron since the stealing and burning of his documents.

And tonight, he would meet the Spymaster again.

Too many secrets, not enough time.

And somewhere, beneath all the fury and fire of his court...a girl with shadows in her blood was waiting to learn who she truly was.

Y/N pulled the last strap of her black cloak snugly around her chest, the velvet material whispering softly against her skin as she moved. Every inch of her was covered—boots laced to the knee, gloves tugged over her fingers, a slim dagger tucked into the side of her boot, just in case.

Just in case.

She stood by the window, not daring to open it, only watching the way the moonlight draped the edge of the palace grounds in shadows and silver. Her breath fogged slightly on the cool glass. Time ticked forward, dragging her thoughts with it.

This was reckless. She knew that. Especially after everything.

After the fight with Eris, the almost-fragile truce that had bloomed between them since. After his words--“You’re my wife. I need to protect you.” And the way he’d looked at her with that frustrating mixture of sincerity and something she still couldn’t decipher.

She’d promised.

Promised she wouldn’t sneak out again. Promised she’d stop running around behind his back--especially now, when the court was on edge, when things were beginning to unravel.

And here she was. Dressed like a shadow. Ready to sneak out again. Guilt prickled at her chest, low and aching.

Just come back before he notices, she told herself. He doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t need to find out.

She rubbed her fingers together, grounding herself in the feel of the gloves, the chill of the stone windowsill beneath her palm. There was no time to sit here and think about guilt, or regrets, or the way her stomach twisted at the thought of Eris finding out.

She was too close now. Too far into the game to back out.

The Unmaker--whatever that card was--was not going to reveal itself through patient waiting.

The door creaked open behind her, quiet but deliberate.

Samira slipped in like smoke, her hair tied in a sleek braid down her back, dressed head to toe in fitted black, eyes gleaming with mischief and readiness. A small satchel was slung across her body, and a silver ring glinted on her finger--one Y/N had never seen before.

“All clear,” Samira said with a grin. “North passage is free. The guards stationed there changed shifts three minutes ago. We’ve got about fifteen to get past the outer gardens.”

Y/N turned fully, lips parting. “You look terrifying.”

Samira smirked. “Thank you. I’m trying out this whole morally questionable look.”

Y/N exhaled, a breath laced with nerves. “Samira…”

“I know,” her friend said softly, stepping closer. “We’re breaking the deal. You’re breaking the deal.”

Y/N nodded. “He’s going to be pissed.” “Probably.”

“And I’ll have to lie to him again.” “Definitely.”

Y/N gave her a withering look.

“But,” Samira continued, “this is important. And you know it. That card didn’t just fall into your lap for no reason. Something’s calling you toward it, and you’ve always been the worst at sitting still.”

A wry smile tugged at Y/N’s mouth. “Don’t psychoanalyze me. I get enough of that from Eris.”

Samira laughed. “Please. Eris can’t even psychoanalyze a glass of wine.”

Y/N chuckled under her breath, but the weight never really lifted from her chest. “I’ll be back before anyone notices,” she said more to herself than Samira.

Samira arched a brow. “Let’s hope so.” Y/N gave one last glance to the quiet hallway behind them--then nodded. “Let’s go.”

The night was colder than usual. Sharp winds cut through the forest clearing like blades, rustling the crimson leaves overhead. Eris stood still in the shadows, back leaning against the trunk of a great Autumn Court oak. His hands were clasped behind him, but his knuckles were white with tension.

He’d arranged this meeting mere hours ago--again. Too soon. Too obvious. Yet Azriel came.

The Shadowsinger emerged from the mist like he always did--silent, coiled with unreadable calm, and very much aware. His wings were absent, glamoured away for convenience or secrecy, Eris didn’t know. Didn’t care.

Azriel’s cold gaze slid over Eris as he approached. “Didn’t we speak just a little while ago?”

Eris let out a low, easy chuckle. “You sound like a male who dreads my company.”

Azriel didn’t laugh. “You said it was urgent.”

“Border activity. Shifting on the western side,” Eris said with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “Nothing worth bringing the court into a panic over. But you and I, we understand the value of keeping tabs on the smallest movement, don’t we?”

Azriel said nothing, merely nodding once.

They spoke for a while--about terrain. Patrol rotations. Azriel shared brief but precise observations from the Night Court’s intelligence. But Eris wasn’t really listening.

He was watching.

Watching Azriel’s face. His reactions. The way his shadows curled around his boots when he was annoyed, and how they vanished when he was calm. He searched for anything--anything at all--that might indicate the Shadowsinger knew who Y/N was. That he had felt something. That some ancient familial pull had stirred inside him.

But there was nothing.

Azriel was as steel-faced and professional as ever. No flickers of recognition. No restless tics. Nothing that suggested he knew he had a sister hiding in plain sight.

Good. Bad. Eris didn’t know. The realization made his stomach twist.

“Would you ever use someone?” Eris asked suddenly, voice low.

Azriel’s eyes narrowed. “Use someone?”

“To win. To gain what you need,” Eris said, gaze fixed on the tree line ahead. “If someone was… important to you. Dear. What would you do, if someone held them like a pawn in their game?”

Silence.

Eris didn’t turn. Didn’t let the words breathe long enough to become dangerous. “I’m not saying it’s about me,” he added quickly, too quickly. “A hypothetical. Strategy talk.”

Azriel’s shadows flared faintly behind him. “That’s a strange hypothetical for a High Lord’s son.”

“Isn’t everything strange in war?” Eris murmured.

Azriel stared at him, then said flatly, “If someone used someone I cared about, I’d burn their world to the ground.”

That made Eris flinch.

Not visibly--never visibly. But something inside him trembled at the force of Azriel’s voice. The conviction. The certainty. It was the same tone Eris himself used when swearing vengeance for his mother. His court.

And now it echoed back at him. A mirror. The silence stretched again.

Eris cleared his throat. “Well,” he said lightly, “remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Azriel didn’t smile.

They wrapped up the conversation after that, going through the motions of information and updates. Eris kept up appearances. Cool. Calm. Controlled.

And yet his thoughts kept circling. Gnawing.

Would he use her? He couldn’t answer. He didn’t know.

Azriel vanished into the mist with nothing but a nod, his figure dissolving into shadow. And Eris stood there alone, eyes on the ground, jaw locked tight as a thousand voices warred in his mind.

His heart knew one thing. His mind another.

And his plan--well, it demanded something else entirely.

He turned sharply and walked back toward the palace, the words Azriel had spoken echoing like thunder behind his ribs.

“I’d burn the world down.”

Eris didn’t know whether that terrified him… or tempted him.

He didn’t leave the Autumn Court.

He told himself he would. That he should. But as he stood on the ridge of a shadowed hill, the crisp burn of autumn winds coiling through his cloak, Azriel’s instincts screamed at him not to go. Something was wrong.

Eris had talked too carefully. Smiled too casually. And that question--what would you do if someone had something dear to you--it didn’t sound like idle curiosity. It sounded like guilt.

So Azriel lingered, melting into the forest with his shadows, watching the court below flicker like firelight--too bright, too alive. As if the whole place was on the verge of something.

And then, he saw them.

Two figures. Dressed in black, cloaked low, slipping through side streets near the court’s edge. One shorter, one taller, both moving in synchronized caution. They weren’t just sneaking out. They were practiced.

He narrowed his eyes, tracking the way they ducked behind vendor stalls, hugged close to alley walls, avoided every patrol like they’d mapped them out ahead of time. Commoners didn’t move like that. Not in a High Court. Not with that level of precision. And their faces--hidden. On purpose.

Azriel’s shadows coiled around his limbs, bristling like smoke against moonlight. If Eris was hiding something, if this was part of it, then this was no time to sit and wait.

No matter who they were, he would follow.

Because if Eris Vanserra thought he could toy with the Night Court, with Rhysand, with him…He would soon learn just how far a Shadowsinger would go to uncover the truth. Azriel dissolved into the darkness, silent as breath, and began to pursue.

The streets of the Autumn Court glowed with the hush of midnight--lanterns burning amber above cobbled alleys, cloaked figures lingering by fire-lit inns. Y/N moved fast, her cloak brushing stone as she and Samira slipped through a shadowed alley, their faces hidden deep beneath their hoods.

“We’re almost there,” Samira whispered, her voice low but urgent. “The back entrance to the library is through here. I used to study its layout years ago. It’s risky, but if we’re lucky- ”

“We’ll find something about the Unmaker,” Y/N finished, her pulse quickening. “Or at least confirm it exists.”

“I still don’t understand how you even know about this place,” Y/N whispered, her voice barely carrying over the crunch of gravel beneath their boots.

Samira didn’t glance back. “A few years ago, I got bored of reading the usual Monteserian court garbage. Ballads and etiquette guides. So I broke into my father’s private library.”

“You what?”

“You heard me,” Samira said, smirking. “There was a chest hidden behind a false panel. Full of travel notes, rare texts, and logs from the old ambassadors and spies. Some of them wrote about strange things they encountered during visits to other courts--things they were told to forget.”

“And one of those things was…?”

Samira slowed as they approached the outskirts of the Great Library, its rear entrance hidden behind a mess of creeping ivy and cracked stone. “Rumors of a sealed floor. Beneath the library. Built long ago. Used to store banned documents, relic registries, dark magic reports--anything the ruling court wanted buried.”

Y/N blinked. “And you never thought to mention this before?”

“I didn’t think it was real,” Samira admitted, eyes sharp. “But after the Unmaker card… something clicked. I remembered. And I thought, even if this is a dead end--if this floor doesn’t exist--it’s still worth checking. At least we’ll know.”

Y/N’s blood hummed. “And if it does exist?”

Samira paused, hand on the rusted door. “Then we come back better prepared. But tonight--we find the door. We verify it’s real.”

Y/N nodded. “Let’s do it.”

They slipped through the shadowy streets, cloaked figures among the few late wanderers. Samira led them through tight alleys and side roads until they reached a narrow stairwell hidden in a wall beneath the library’s outer gardens.

The stone steps spiraled down--far deeper than Y/N expected. Dust hung heavy in the air, the torchlight flickering wildly.

At the bottom, the tunnel opened into a cold, echoing corridor. And at the far end....An enormous pair of iron doors, etched with strange markings that shimmered faintly in the dark.

Y/N’s breath caught. “You were right.”

“I wish I wasn’t,” Samira murmured. But the second Y/N stepped forward, something shifted in the air.

A flicker of movement to their left. Then their right. The shadows surged--and attacked.

A creature burst forth, formed of old armor and smoky tendrils of magic, wielding blades that sang like screaming wind. Y/N and Samira both barely leapt aside.

“What the hell is that?” Y/N shouted.

“The guardian!” Samira yelled. “I read about it--it protects the sealed archives!”

“Well, that would’ve been nice to mention earlier!”

They split apart, flanking the thing. Samira moved with sharp, trained precision. Y/N relied on instincts--fast, dirty street-style agility. She rolled, ducked, sliced her blade against the thing’s armor--but it barely slowed.

It landed a glancing blow on her arm, slicing skin. Blood bloomed.

Y/N snarled and twisted away. No distractions. Stay light on your feet. But the thing didn’t slow.

It knocked Samira back. She crashed into the wall with a pained grunt. Y/N rushed forward, clutching her arm tightly.

No--no not again. The creature raised its sword-

And a wave of shadows slammed into it. Blades flashed. Darkness surged. In two brutal strikes, the guardian collapsed--disintegrating into ash. Y/N turned. Azriel stood there. Wings half-open. Shadows still swirling around his fists.

His eyes scanned the room--and landed on her. Froze.

And then-

Recognition. His expression sharpened. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Y/N’s throat tightened. She didn’t have an answer. Samira groaned from behind her. Azriel moved without hesitation. “No time.”

Darkness exploded outward. And the world blinked into nothing.

The wind rushed past her ears as the world reformed beneath her feet. And then--solid ground. Y/N stumbled slightly as Azriel released them from the winnow. Samira gasped and immediately dropped to her knees, hands on the earth, dragging in desperate gulps of air. Y/N’s own legs gave out, and she landed beside her, her mind spinning far more violently than her body.

Azriel stood over them, tall and unmoving, like a shadow given flesh. His eyes were locked onto them both, unreadable, his scarred hands clenched at his sides. Y/N could barely look at him.

Her half-brother. The one she had never known. The one whose blood mirrored hers. She hadn’t spoken to him--ever. And now he’d just saved her life.

“Are you two all right?” His voice was quieter than she expected, low but firm.

Her head snapped toward him. Of course he recognizes me… but only as Eris’s wife.

“We’re fine,” Samira answered, still panting, “We’re--fine.”

Azriel’s gaze swept over Samira first, checking for injuries. Then his eyes landed on Y/N again. Longer this time. Like he sensed something off but couldn’t place it.

“What the hell were you two doing down there?” he asked, taking a step forward.

Y/N felt her spine stiffen. The shock melted into a rising, familiar heat. “You’re asking us? What are you doing here? If Eris finds out you’ve been snooping around the Autumn Court grounds, you’ll be wishing it was just Beron you had to deal with.”

Azriel’s jaw ticked. “I don’t answer to Eris.”

“Oh, how brave of you,” she snapped, rising to her feet with the grace of someone pretending their entire world hadn’t just shifted. “You think you can go wherever you want, sniff around, spy, and not get caught?”

“Coming from someone who just got caught,” he said flatly, “That’s rich.”

“Enough!” Samira barked, getting to her feet between them. “Gods, you two are fighting like two siblings right now!”

Y/N flinched at the word. Samira didn’t know, of course.

Azriel’s eyes shifted slightly toward her--he didn’t react to the word siblings. No flicker of recognition. Nothing.

So he truly didn’t know

Azriel’s focus snapped back to her arm, blood trickling slowly from a fresh cut. Without warning, he tore a strip from his sleeve and stepped forward.

“I’m fine,” Y/N muttered, but her voice was weak, unconvincing.

“Just hold still.” His voice left no room for argument.

She watched, stunned, as he tied the makeshift bandage around her arm, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle. The scent of shadows and cool air clung to him, foreign yet… oddly familiar.

They both stared at each other for a breath longer than necessary.

“I didn’t see you. You didn’t see me. Agreed?” Azriel finally said, stepping back.

Samira nodded. “Fine by me.”

But Y/N’s lips parted in defiance. “We can find our own way back. No need for your Night Court surveillance.”

Azriel’s brows lifted slightly, surprised. “I just saved your lives.”

Samira elbowed her sharply in the ribs. “Princess Amira!”

Right, Amira. Her second identity.

“I didn’t ask him to!” she hissed back, eyes still locked on Azriel. “Just go. Back to wherever you came from.”

Azriel’s expression hardened, but he gave a single nod. “Very well.”

With a flicker of darkness, he vanished. The moment he was gone, Samira rounded on her. “What was that all about?!”

Y/N didn’t let her finish. “I just need to talk to Eris.”

“Don’t you dare tell him about this,” Samira hissed. “You think he won’t ask what you were doing out?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, brushing off dirt from her trousers. “I won’t tell him.”

They began to walk, slowly and in silence. But something prickled at the back of Y/N’s neck. A whisper of instinct. A breath of shadow on the wind.

Azriel hadn’t left. She was sure of it.

He was following. Watching. Ensuring they got back safely. And she didn’t know what unsettled her more--that he still felt like a stranger, or that some part of her was… comforted.

Y/N hissed quietly as Samira dabbed the salve into the slash on her upper arm.

“You’re lucky it didn’t go any deeper,” Samira muttered, her voice low, sharp with concern. “Next time you try to shield me, at least try not to bleed everywhere like some over-dramatic noblewoman.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re welcome.”

Samira helped her slide on a long-sleeved tunic, hiding the bandage. “There. No one will notice unless they’re staring too hard. And I doubt your lovely husband pays that close attention.”

A beat of silence.

“He does,” Y/N muttered.

Samira paused, gaze flicking to hers. But she said nothing. Instead, she tied off the last wrap and straightened.

“So,” Y/N said after a moment, voice a bit more guarded, “what the hell was Azriel doing there? Of all people.”

Samira exhaled. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

They exchanged a look. The shadows hadn’t attacked them. Had even seemed… aware of her.

“But,” Samira added, her voice shifting--firmer, steadier, “more importantly, we were right. The library passage is active. Which means we can prepare better this time. We’re not going in blind again.”

Y/N nodded slowly, her mind already racing ahead. But part of her stayed frozen in that memory--Azriel standing in that dark corridor, too still, too knowing.

After Samira left, Y/N gathered herself, took one last look in the mirror to make sure the tunic concealed the wound, and slipped out of her chambers.

The heavy door to Eris’s office was slightly ajar.

Inside, he stood at his desk, broad shoulders stiff, golden-red hair falling in sharp waves as he leaned over some document, the candlelight casting a glow over the strong line of his jaw. His fingers traced over something—perhaps a map, or a report.

Y/N stepped inside quietly.

“How dare you enter my office without my—” He looked up, and the words died in his throat.

His eyes locked on hers. She could see the moment he processed her presence—first surprise, then something softer, flickering just behind his usual coolness.

“I’m sorry,” she said, already backing a step. “I’ll go.”

“No,” he said instantly, “you… you can come in whenever you please.”

She blinked.

“I didn’t find you in your room,” he added, his voice quieter now. “Where were you?”

Y/N hesitated, then slipped fully into the room, closing the door behind her. “Samira and I were walking around the palace grounds,” she said carefully. “Just… usual stuff.”

He didn’t reply at first, only nodded, then sat down behind his desk. “You shouldn’t push yourself.”

She shrugged, crossing her arms—mostly to cover the pain in her shoulder. “I’m fine.”

Silence stretched. But it wasn’t tense—not this time. Something about the way he watched her, the way his eyes flicked from her face to her hands and back again, seemed… less guarded.

“I just wanted to see what you were doing,” she said finally, quietly.

His gaze softened. “Reading reports. Thinking. Waiting.”

“For?”

He didn’t answer. But the look he gave her made her throat tighten.

Just as she stepped closer to the desk, a flicker of shadow appeared at the edge of the table—magic. A sealed envelope materialized, dark as midnight, with a smooth black wax seal pressed into the parchment.

Both of them stilled.

Eris reached out before she could, breaking the seal with a practiced flick of his fingers. He read.

And frowned.

Y/N moved around the desk slowly, watching the way his jaw tightened, how his eyes scanned the letter once, twice.

“What is it?” she asked, heart starting to race.

He said nothing. “Eris.”

Still silent, still staring. So she moved beside him, leaned down to look at the paper. Her breath caught.

Prince Eris Vanserra, princess Amira Vanserra,

You are formally invited to attend a private dinner at the House of Wind in Velaris.

Tomorrow night.

From the High Lord of the Night Court, Rhysand and the High lady, Feyre.

Her heart plummeted.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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[moonlitstoriess]

Excuse me but I think I need intense therapy after that cassian angst. Sobbing can’t even describe what a mess I am. It was STUNNING and if you ever wanna write a part two of any type for it I beg you to tag me please!!! I’d die for more of his thoughts and side of it plus Az or Rhys finding out what she did!!!

Omg thank you and I’m sorry!! here is a cookie as an apology 🫴🏻🍪 I do think I want to keep this as a oneshot because I feel like it doesn’t need to be prolonged any more than it is. Guess I will leave the rest up to your imagination☺️

Thank you for the support<3

[moonlitstoriess]

Until the End, and Even Then- Cassian x fem!reader(oneshot)

Summary: She stood beside him through centuries of war, loyalty carved into every scar. But when new faces arrived, his heart turned elsewhere, leaving hers to quietly break. In the end, she made the choice no one else could—and no one saw it coming.

Warnings: Angst, major character death, no happy ending, Cassian is attracted to Nesta, Cassian's realization hits too late

A/N: This is something that I'm writing from my own experience (minus the entire fantasy, death part of course lol) so to anyone who has also ever been forgotten by someone they once held so dear, I see you. You are one of a kind strong, trust me. <3

See masterlist

They had always been together.

From the moment she could remember--cold wind biting at her face, Illyrian mountains stretching far beyond her reach--Cassian had been there. Loud. Fierce. Covered in bruises and full of fire. He was her first friend, her first constant in a world that had never promised her anything.

Orphaned, half-starved, and unwanted--like so many others in the camps--they'd fought for food, for warmth, for scraps of attention from the males who treated them like dogs and broke them down worse. But while the other boys laughed at her, told her she didn't belong with a sword in her hand, Cassian had simply handed her a blade and said, "Then make them eat their words."

And so she did.

They trained in secret, often at night, after the others had collapsed from exhaustion. Y/N would wrap her fingers tighter around the hilt and mimic every movement he showed her, again and again, until the blisters burst. She bled, fell, got back up. Cassian never went easy on her. That was the closest thing to respect a female could earn in the mountains.

Years passed like that -- cold mornings, warm fires stolen behind supply tents, bruised knuckles, split lips and laughter that echoed across the frostbitten peaks. When Rhysand arrived, still a kid--half-smirk, half-chubby cheeks, already too pretty to belong in the war camps -- they'd eyed him with suspicion, but Cassian, somehow, had decided to trust him.

And where Cassian went, Y/N followed.

It wasn't long before they became something more than just orphans scraping by. Rhys, Azriel, Cassian, and her. A strange little knot of survival. She wasn't one of the males, not really -- not to the others. But to them? She was part of the spine. The only female Illyrian to keep up, to carve her own place into the mud and stone of the war camps and not be broken by it.

She remembered when Mor came, golden and defiant and bleeding, and Y/N hated how much she wanted to protect her. It was Mor who told her she didn't have to prove anything to anyone. That being strong didn't mean being silent.

So she trained harder. Rose faster.

By the time Rhys became High Lord, Cassian was made Commander of the Night Court's armies. And Y/N? She earned her place among the elite aerial units -- flying over territories that once spat at her for daring to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with males. Now, she led them.

Still, even with a blade on her back and command in her voice, she always flew beside him. Always had.

There was a time -- she couldn't remember exactly when -- when looking at him had started to hurt in a different way. A quieter ache. A secret, steady bloom that rooted in her chest every time he laughed, or grinned at her like they still shared everything.

She never told him.

Not once.

Because how could you tell someone you'd loved them your entire life -- when they still looked at you like you were a part of their past, not their future?

There were memories she never spoke of. Ones she kept tucked away like old medals -- quiet, precious things no one else knew existed.

Like that time they snuck out of the camps, bloodied and aching after a brutal training day, to lie on the snow-packed cliff edge and count the stars. She remembered how Cassian had fallen asleep halfway through her retelling of an old Illyrian myth, his head tipped back, mouth parted, curls tangled by the wind. He looked so peaceful -- so young. She hadn't slept that night, just watched the stars fade into dawn beside him.

Or the way he always noticed when her hands were too scraped from sparring. He'd never say anything outright -- just grumble about her being "reckless as hell" while slipping a salve into her pocket and walking away before she could thank him.

He always called her trouble.

And when he said it, it didn't sound like an insult. It sounded like a secret.

There was the time he'd gotten hurt -- truly hurt, chest torn open after intercepting a blow meant for her -- and she sat beside his cot all night. Not as a soldier. Not even as a friend.

But as someone who hadn't known she was in love until she watched the rise and fall of his breath and realized it could stop.

There was one night she'd never let herself speak of.

Years ago, before Rhys was crowned, before any of them had titles or thrones or scars too deep to name, a storm had grounded them in a half-ruined outpost near the border. Rain lashed the mountain walls. The roof leaked. The fire barely stayed lit. But they were warm -- just the two of them -- wrapped in old cloaks, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the cramped barracks room, waiting out the storm.

Cassian had been quiet that night. Not tired. Just quiet in a way he rarely was. She remembered how he kept rubbing a spot just below his ribs--an injury he hadn’t told anyone about. Typical. Always throwing himself into danger first and thinking later.

So she made him let her look. Bandaged the wound. Muttered something about how even war generals could bleed like the rest of them. He didn’t smile. Not then.

But when she finished, he caught her hand--just held it. Calloused, warm, unmoving.

“If we weren’t always fighting,” he said softly, “do you think we’d know how to live?”

She hadn’t known what to say.

And maybe that’s why she never answered. Maybe that’s why she just held his hand in the dark, listening to the thunder, pretending--for a few heartbeats--that his words meant something more.

He fell asleep like that. Still holding her hand.

She never brought it up again. Neither did he.

But sometimes, in the middle of battle, or during those cold, endless nights in the skies, she’d feel that phantom pressure around her fingers and wonder--just once--if he ever remembered, too.

She remembered the late-night flying sessions they used to do just for the thrill of it. No missions, no reports -- just two fools in the sky, racing the wind and whooping like children. He once grabbed her hand mid-air and swung her into a dive with him, the two of them spiraling through the clouds, breathless with laughter.

"You and me, Y/N" he'd said afterwards, as they lay on their backs in the grass. "We're the best godsdamned pair in these skies."

And she'd believed him.

Still did.

Even when things began to change.

Even when the skies they flew together stopped feeling like freedom, and started feeling like goodbye.

Change didn't come with fire and thunder. It came quietly.

It started with Feyre, first brought into the Court of Dreams like a storm with a broken heart. Y/N liked her well enough. Strong, clever, endlessly curious. A fighter in her own right. Y/N admired that.

And she understood what it meant to carry the weight of trauma in your bones. To still wake up every night ready to fight ghosts no one else could see. So she didn't begrudge the attention Feyre received.

But then Nesta came.

And something in Cassian changed.

Y/N remembered the day Nesta was Made -- turned into High Fae by the Cauldron, wrath and ruin forged into a body that hadn't asked for it. She remembered the moment she saw her for the first time -- standing still, face cold, rage sharp enough to slice the air in half.

Cassian was already staring.

Y/N told herself it was concern. Shock. Empathy, maybe. Cassian had always protected those who couldn't protect themselves.

But day after day, month after month, mission after mission...his attention drifted. And not just his eyes. His words, his silences, his moods -- they all began to orbit Nesta inch by inch.

It wasn't that he stopped caring about Y/N. He still trained with her, still sparred, still flew beside her in perfect formation. He still laughed with her after patrols and still called her trouble.

But he wasn't with her anymore.

Not really.

She never told him.

Never interrupted the way his eyes lingered when Nesta left a room. Never stopped him from glancing over his shoulder when Nesta passed them in the training ring.

She smiled through it all.

Because if she didn't -- if she let it show -- what would be left of her that wasn't just pain?

So she kept fighting.

Kept flying.

Kept waiting for the ache to fade.

And it never did.

It started with little things.

"Do you think she likes strong tea or sweet?" he asked one morning, halfway through tying his hair. Y/N had blinked at him, momentarily forgetting they were prepping for a reconnaissance flight. "Nesta," he added, not noticing the way she stiffened.

"I...don't know," she said after a pause. "Maybe both. Depends on the day."

He grinned, as if that answer was charming, then returned to his blade, humming some tune under his breath.

That was the first time he asked. But not the last.

There were days he sought her out for strategy, only to pivot the conversation into "Nesta didn't eat again today," or "I think she likes books about romance -- should I bring her one?"

Y/N gave him advice. Every time.

What else could she do?

Because if she pulled back, even a little -- if she stopped listening -- she was afraid he'd stop coming to her altogether.

One night, after a particularly grueling training session with new recruits, he sat beside her on the wall overlooking the mountains.

"She's colder than the northern ridge," he muttered, tossing a rock over the ledge. "But she burns under it all, I can feel it."

Y/N didn't speak.

Cassian leaned his head back. "You'd like her more if you talked to her. She's not as awful as she seems."

"I never said she was awful."

"No, but..." He turned toward her with that boyish, lopsided grin that used to be only hers. "You don't really give her much of a chance. Why?"

Y/N exhaled through her nose and said nothing.

Cassian leaned forward again, elbows on knees. "I just want to get through to her. Make her see she's not alone in this court."

Y/N's throat tightened. She almost laughed. Almost said, I've been here beside you longer than she's even known your name.

But she didn't.

Instead, she placed her hand on his shoulder and murmured, "You'll find a way. You always do."

Then came the first time she saw them together.

She hadn't meant to stumble upon them -- just returning from dinner and a flight, windburned and half-drenched from a sudden storm, walking through the garden to dry her wings before heading in.

And there they were.

Cassian and Nesta under one of the arches, their faces close, the moonlight casting silver over his siphons and her hair. He said something -- something that made Nesta snort softly and shake her head -- and then he smiled.

Not the loud, showy one he gave to the world.

The soft one.

The rare one.

The one he used to give to her.

Y/N backed away before they saw her. She told herself she didn't care. That she was only tired.

But that night, she flew above the cliffs until her wings ached, just to make sure the wind drowned out the sound of her heart breaking.

She didn't plan on going to Rhysand that day.

But something in her had cracked. Maybe it was watching Cassian walk Nesta back from training as they laughed at something she didn't hear. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, that distant softness he only seemed to carry now when Nesta was around. Or maybe it was just the silence -- how she could be beside him and still feel a thousand miles away.

So she went.

Stormed into the Townhouse, boots echoing down the hall as she made her way to Rhysand's study.

He looked up the moment she entered, unsurprised by her presence but visibly taken aback by the sharpness in her eyes.

"Y/N," he greeted. Calm, careful. "Is something wrong?"

"I want a mission," she said. Flatly. No preamble.

Rhys raised a brow. "A mission?"

"You send everyone else. Spies, scouts, diplomats, Azriel, Mor. I'm not asking for a vacation, Rhys. I need to do something." Her hands were clenched at her sides. She hated how desperate she sounded.

He studied her for a long moment. "No."

She blinked. "What?"

"I said no," he repeated, voice still gentle.

Her jaw tightened. "Why? I've led aerial units. I've fought in more skirmishes than half your court. Don't give me that protective bullshit, Rhys. If this is about Cassian- "

"It's not," he said, standing slowly. "It's not about your skill or record. It's not about Cassian or anyone else."

"Then what is it?" she demanded, the frustration curling in her chest like flame. Rhys's expression shifted then--softer, but heavier. Like a burden he didn't want to speak aloud.

"Because war is coming," he said quietly. "Hybern's army is preparing to move. We received confirmation yesterday."

Y/N went still.

"I'm not sending anyone on a mission anymore," Rhys continued. "Not unless they're tied directly to the front lines and critical strategy. I can't afford to scatter my forces now. We're weeks -- maybe days -- away from open conflict."

She felt like the floor dropped from beneath her.

War.

She hadn't realized it was that close.

Her throat bobbed. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"I was going to," Rhys said. "Soon. Cassian and Azriel are already working through the first phase of deployment. You would've been briefed tomorrow."

Y/N stared at him. Her mind spun, trying to process it all -- the sudden shift from emotional wreckage to impending destruction.

Rhys stepped closer, voice lower now. "I know you've been feeling...out of place. But don't take yourself out of the fight just because you're hurting."

Her mouth parted. He knew.

Of course he did.

Rhysand saw everything.

She turned to go, forcing herself to keep her spine straight. To ignore the pounding in her chest.

"Y/N," he said, as she reached the door.

She paused.

"You're not invisible," he said gently. "Not to all of us."

She didn't look back.

She didn't trust herself to.

If only she knew that this was the beginning of her end.

The war room was colder than usual.

Maps sprawled across the obsidian table, dotted with tokens, notes, and tiny carved markers of armies not yet moved. Rhysand stood at the head of the room beside Feyre, both of them grave and steady, their bond humming like quiet lightning between them. Azriel lingered in the shadows. Mor and Amren leaned over the map with creases between their brows.

And Cassian -- he stood near Nesta.

Close.

Too close.

Y/N kept her eyes fixed on the layout of Hybern’s front lines, her hands clasped behind her back to keep them from shaking. She listened to the breakdown of units, flight formations, ground forces. She took note of her assignment. She would lead the flank--high altitude, fast and quiet--sweeping in with her unit from the eastern pass at Rhys’s signal.

No one questioned her role. No one doubted her capability.

And still, when Cassian spoke, when he gave orders or reassurances to the other commanders, he never once looked at her.

Not once.

Near the end of the meeting, Feyre mentioned the civilians being evacuated from a nearby village -- how their movement might delay her forces by half a day. Nesta murmured something about keeping an eye on the terrain, something sharp and practical.

Cassian chuckled softly.

“That’s my girl,” he said.

And that was it.

Y/N didn’t remember the rest of the meeting. Only the roaring in her ears.

"I need to speak with you," Y/N snapped, grabbing Cassian's arm as he exited the chamber.

He gave her a look -- flat, unreadable. But he followed.

The room she chose was small and unused, tucked off a quiet hallway of the House of Wind. As soon as the door shut, the silence snapped between them.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded.

Cassian blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," she hissed. "You've barely looked at me for days. You act like I'm a stranger -- like I don't exist. But the second she speaks- "

He cut her off. "Don't do this, Y/N."

"No, you don't get to do this," she said, voice cracking. "I have stood by your side through every godsdamned war, every loss, every scar. And now- now I'm just what? A name on your flight charts?"

He shook his head. "This isn't the time."

"Then when is it?" she snapped. "After one of us dies tomorrow? After you tell her 'that's my girl' again in front of everyone like the rest of us don't matter?"

Cassian's jaw clenched. "She is my girl."

The silence that followed nearly dropped her to her knees. "I know," she whispered. "Believe me--I know."

But he wasn't done.

"You act like I've betrayed you. I didn't make you stay beside me all these years. I didn't ask you to be anything more than a soldier. If you wanted more, Y/N...you should've said something about your position a long time ago. Don't take it out in jealousy now."

Her breath caught. Like a punch to the gut.

A soldier.

That's all she was to him. All this time, that's all he saw her as.

He thought she was complaining about her title, about her position in the court. About Nesta 'outshining' her.

Gods, how stupid is he. How....how little has she truly known of him.

"Would it have mattered?" she asked quietly. "If...if I had done something?"

One question. Two different meanings.

Y/N knew he didn't get the meaning she wanted him to get.

But she asked him anyway.

Cassian hesitated.

And that was her answer.

He turned to leave, hand on the doorknob.

"I'm sorry," he said over his shoulder. "But don't bring this into battle. We all have our roles. Focus on yours."

The door shut behind him before she could speak.

The air was cold behind the tents.

Y/N had gone out to clear her head before the final camp briefing. Before dawn. Before it all began.

She'd only wanted a moment. But instead, she saw them.

Cassian leaning in, murmuring something to Nesta. Her hand curled in his. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, then drew her close, his brow resting lightly against hers.

Y/N looked away.

The next morning, Rhys gave his speech--strong, steady, a High Lord ready to lead his court into fire.

They all embraced one another. Azriel clasped her shoulder. Mor hugged her tight. Feyre gave her a quiet, grateful smile.

Cassian didn't speak to her. She didn't look at him. No goodbyes. No glances.

Not even when they split off in separate directions, wings unfurling into a sky that might not welcome them back.

The battlefield was a storm.

Wings filled the sky, blotting out the sun. Screams tore through the clouds--Illyrian war cries, magic surging through the air like lightning. The earth shook beneath their boots. Blades clashed, smoke rose, and still, the tide of Hybern forces surged forward.

Y/N’s hands were soaked in blood--hers, others, she didn’t know anymore. Her wings burned with exhaustion, her chest heaved. But she didn’t stop.

Couldn’t.

She spotted Cassian midair, diving through a wave of soldiers.

Alive. He was alive.

She'd done her part. Led the eastern flank. Cleared the path. Reinforced Azriel's squad. She was ready to die for it. But not like this.

Not like this.

And then-- A pulse. Magic.

Wrong magic.

It throbbed through the air like a heartbeat from something long dead and newly reawakened. She felt it in her bones, in the marrow of her wings. Not just power--unmaking. A rift tearing open the weave of the world itself.

Her head snapped toward the Cauldron, still half-shrouded in smoke and blood and broken stone. It was pulsing--no, breathing. Swollen with ancient energy, black and slick and endless. She saw the last of the Hybern priests retreating, their mouths twisted in triumph, even as they fled.

The wards around the Cauldron had fallen. No one had noticed. Until now.

And the spell--gods, that spell. She could see it. Magic coiling around it, forming jagged patterns in the sky, drawn in impossible runes of blood and bone and sacrifice. It wasn’t just a weapon.

It was a curse.

A final death sentence. A wave of devastation meant to devour the battlefield in one last scream of ruin. No one would survive it—not Rhys, not Feyre, not Azriel or Mor, not Cassian or Nesta.

Not even the Cauldron itself.

One final blow to level the world before falling into silence.

She didn’t wait. Didn’t think. Didn’t call for help or backup or approval. There wasn’t time.

So she moved.

Her blade was slick in her grip as she surged forward, slashing through the two Hybern soldiers guarding the outer ring of magic. They fell without sound. Her wings snapped wide, catching what lift the broken air could still give her, and she launched.

The Cauldron loomed before her now--closer than it had ever been. It wasn’t just an object. It was a force, ancient and alive, and it saw her coming. The runes flared, the spell reacted, but she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t stop.

Because something inside her--deep and quiet and final--had already decided.

It was always going to end this way.

She let her power rise, the last of it. Poured it into her limbs, her wings, her lungs. Not to fight—no, she wasn’t strong enough to undo the curse. But she could interrupt it. She could anchor it. Draw it into herself.

And by doing so, burn with it. It would hurt. She knew that. It would be agony. But pain wasn’t new. Dying wasn’t what she feared.

Being forgotten--that was what had always terrified her.

But now?

Now, there was no one left to remember her the way she wanted.

So she embraced the storm.

He felt it before he saw her.

A sharp shift in the wind. A scream in his chest he hadn’t yet released. And then--

Y/N.

Running. Flying. Toward the Cauldron.

“No,” he breathed. “No -- NO!”

He dove. Wings burning from overuse, pushing harder, faster. Screaming her name.

“Y/N!”

She didn’t look back. Not at first.

But right before she reached the Cauldron’s circle--where the magic cracked the earth, splitting stone and sky--she turned.

Just once. Her eyes met his.

And she smiled.

Not bitter. Not sad. Just… soft. Steady. Peaceful.

A thousand memories flooded her mind in that final second.

Cassian holding her hand in the barracks. Cassian teaching her to fly. Cassian laughing, bloodied and breathless, after a spar. Cassian saying, "You and me, Y/N--we’re the best godsdamned pair in these skies."

And then--

She threw herself into the light.

“Y/N!” he roared, his wings tearing at the air, throwing himself toward her like he could still reach her in time, still pull her back, still undo what had already been set in motion.

Nesta called after him, grabbed for his arm, but he wrenched away.

Too late.

A flash of light erupted--searing white, violent silver, threads of raw blue magic exploding outward in a perfect ring.

The sound tore across the battlefield like thunder cracking the world open.

Cassian hit the ground--hard. His knees buckled beneath him. His wings collapsed. He screamed her name again, but it was lost in the storm.

The Cauldron imploded.

Folded in on itself in a pulse of ancient power, taking everything with it. The runes dissolved. The curse shattered.

And when the light cleared--

There was nothing.

No body. No wings. No sound.

Only the faint shimmer of magic still curling in the breeze--burning out, like embers trying to hold onto their last breath.

Cassian stared, chest heaving. Blood on his hands. Dirt in his mouth. The place where she’d stood moments ago was empty.

The world went silent. And he knew--without needing to be told.

She was gone.

The war was won. The Cauldron lay in ruins--shattered, unmade, its dark power turned to dust beneath the morning sun.

But Cassian didn’t move. Didn’t celebrate. Didn’t speak.

He stood where she had fallen, on blackened earth that still hissed with dying magic. Smoke curled in the wind. Bodies lay silent. Somewhere behind him, Rhys was giving orders. Feyre was healing soldiers. Nesta… Nesta was calling his name.

But he didn’t turn.

His hands were filthy. Shaking. Bloodied from clawing at rubble, from searching--gods, from hoping.

And then--buried beneath a patch of scorched soil and ash--he found it.

A small, warped flight pendant. The one he’d given her years ago. A joke, at the time. “You’ll be the death of me,” he’d said when she outpaced him mid-air. “But you’ll look good doing it.”

Now it was half-melted, the chain snapped. The ribbon she’d tied it with--red, like the ribbon she once wore in her hair--burned to nearly nothing.

Cassian fell to his knees.

His fingers trembled as he turned the pendant over.

There--etched faintly into the back, almost missed beneath the grime--was a message.

“If I die, let him know I did it with love.”

His breath broke. Not a gasp. Not a sob.

It was silence cracking.

Because she had never told him. Never once said the words. And now they were carved into metal--buried, hidden, meant to be found only after it was too late.

Cassian bowed his head, pressing the pendant to his forehead as the wind howled around him. His voice was hoarse, empty, barely audible when he whispered,

“You were never supposed to go without knowing. Gods, you were never supposed to go.”

The battlefield blurred.

“You flew beside me in every war. And I never saw you falling.”

And in the Wind…

A breeze swept through the field, warm despite the ash.

And if Cassian had looked up just then, he might’ve seen a glimmer in the sky--something like a wingbeat. Something like a goodbye.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[moonlitstoriess]

Too Quiet, Too Long- Rowan Whitethorn x fem!reader

Summary: When Rowan returns home bloodied and silent after disappearing for days, Y/N is furious and terrified. As his mate, she felt every moment of his absence like a wound. But now that he's back, broken, and distant, she's the one who has to hold them together.

Warnings: mentions of injury, blood, violence, angst, fluff towards the end

A/N: Thank you all so much for 1000+ followers!Crazy how so many people enjoy my silly little fics. Love you all, here is a little something for you <3

See masterlist

The fire had burned low.

Shadows danced across the stone walls, quiet and unwelcome. The kind of silence that didn't feel peaceful, it felt wrong. Stretched thin. Hollow.

Y/N hadn't moved from the chair near the hearth in hours. Not really. Not since dusk bled into night, and not since the tug in her chest--the one tethered to him--had twisted in that awful, bone-deep way that meant pain. Not hers. His.

She'd felt it a day ago.

Then...nothing.

No whispers through the bond, no flicker of emotion, no Rowan. And that silence? That terrified her more than anything else in the world.

The wind rattled the windowpanes, and she clenched her jaw. Her tea had long gone cold, untouched on the table. Her hands, usually so steady, rested in fists against her thigh. She didn't cry. She was past crying.

Past pacing.

Past pretending she could sit still and not shatter from the waiting. The bond hadn't gone quiet like this since-

No. She wouldn't go there.

Her eyes flicked to the door for the hundredth time.

Still nothing.

And then....a sound.

Wood. Hinges. The faintest creak.

Her heart slammed once, then held it's breath. Footsteps -- heavy, dragging -- echoed through the wall.

She was on her feet before her mind could catch up.

And when the door finally opened, and he filled the treshold--cloak soaked, face pale, blood soaking through his side--All she could say was, "You bastard."

The firelight caught the dark bruises blooming beneath his skin, the thin trickle of blood staining his shirt like a scarlet banner.

Rowan didn't say a word. Didn't try to argue or defend himself. He just leaned heavily on the doorframe, breathing shallow, every inch of him saying I'm broken, but refusing to admit it.

She stepped forward, fingers trembling with a dozen unsaid things--but her voice was sharp, low.

"You think you can just walk in here and pretend that none of it happened? That I didn't spend every second wanting to tear the world looking apart for you?"

Rowan's jaw tightened. For a moment, the fierce, unreadable hawk in his eyes softened, just enough for her to see the weight he carried. "I didn't want you to know." His voice was gravel and regret. "Didn't want you to be -- worried."

"Worried? Rowan, I felt you bleeding. Felt you gone. I'm your mate. You're not some ghost that I can forget."

He swallowed hard, shifting so that she could help him sit. His body was tense, like a wild animal trapped and too proud to be caught. Y/N knelt down, hands surprisingly gentle as they peeled back his cloak, revealing the ragged tear in his shirt and the dark, angry line of a wound on his ribs.

"Why didn't you come home sooner?" she whispered, voice cracking despite herself.

Rowan closed his eyes, the faintest flicker of pain crossing his features.

"Because it wasn't safe. Because I thought that I could fix it alone."

Her breath caught. She reached up, brushing a strand of damp hair from his forehead.

"Fix it with me, Rowan. You don't have to be alone."

He looked at her then--really looked--and for the first time in days, the wall came down.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice raw. "I'm so sorry."

He said it so quietly. Like the words might break if he breathed too hard.

I'm sorry.

She could've let her anger win. Let the rage she'd been sitting with for days pour out in venom and fire. But gods -- seeing him like this -- she couldn't. She just couldn't.

Instead, she exhaled slowly and said, "Let me see the wound."

Rowan shifted with a wince, grimacing as she helped slide his cloak off his shoulders. The fabric stuck to dried blood near his side, and he hissed through his teeth.

She didn't flinch. "Sit back," she said, steady now. "And be still."

Rowan obeyed without a word. That alone told her how bad it really was -- her mate, the brooding, stubborn Fae bastard who rarely listened to anyone, was silent and compliant.

Her fingers worked quickly, pulling the ruined shirt up and over his head. And there it was -- an angry gash slashing across his ribs, deeper than she'd feared, already half-infested.

"Gods, Rowan," she whispered, voice thin. "This should've been treated hours ago."

"I didn't stop," he muttered. "Didn't want to risk- "

"Risk what? Coming home alive?"

His jaw clenched, but he didn't argue. He just looked away, throat bobbing like he was swallowing back more than pain.

She dipped a cloth into the warm water she'd kept by the fire and began cleaning the wound. He didn't so much as grunt as she worked--but she felt the tightness in him, the restraint, like he was holding himself together with threads.

And still, his voice came low. "I thought if I could end it fast...you'd never have to know how close it got. Or maybe, just maybe, if luck was on my side, I'd quickly come back home. To you."

She froze. Just for a second. Then kept going.

"You were going to die alone for my peace of mind?" Her voice cracked again. Softer this time. "Rowan, I don't need a martyr. I need you. Just you. Bleeding, breathing, broken -- whatever. But here."

He didn't answer. Not at first.

Then he looked at her. Not with shame this time, but with something quiet and wrecked behind his eyes. "I didn't know how to come back like this."

Y/N's hands stilled. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his, gently. Their breath mingled in the space between them.

"You just come back," she whispered, "That's enough."

She stayed close, forehead still pressed to his, hands resting on his bare chest where the worst of the wound had been cleaned. His heart beat beneath her palms--slow, steady, strong.

Alive.

That's all she needed.

They stayed like that for a long moment, the kind of silence that didn't hurt anymore. The fire crackled low behind them, casting flickers of gold across his silver hair and the curve of his jaw.

Eventually, she sat back and grabbed the salve from the shelf beside the hearth. He eyed it with no small amount of distrust. "Don't make that face," she said, uncorking the jar.

"That stuff smells like death."

"It smells like eucalyptus, a plant used to heal."

"Feral eucalyptus."

She smiled despite herself, gently applying it to the edges of the wound. He hissed --just once-- and she raised an eyebrow.

"You're lucky I love you." she muttered, voice softer than the words sounded.

Rowan met her gaze. No mask. No shields. Just him. "I know,"

When she finished wrapping the bandage around his ribs, she sat back on her heels, arms crossed loosely.

"New rule," she said, voice firmer now. "No more shutting me out. No more cutting the bond. No more vanishing for days."

"Y/N- "

"I'm serious. If something happens, we face it together. I don't want protection. I want truth. I want you." Her voice wavered just slightly at the end, but her eyes held his. "If the roles were reversed -- if I walked out that door, didn't say a word, came back bleeding -- what would you do? How would you feel?"

Rowan didn't hesitate. "I'd burn the world, destroy kingdoms to find you."

She nodded slowly. "Exactly. So maybe next time, don't make me decide whether to do the same."

His throat bobbed. "I won't. I swear it."

"Good." she said, standing and brushing off her hands. "Because I like our home. I don't want to burn it down to find you."

That pulled a small breath of laughter from him -- raspy, but real. He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes just for a second.

"You know,” she said with a teasing lilt in her voice, "if you wanted me to fuss over you shirtless, you could've just asked."

He cracked an eye open. "You're impossible."

"And you're dramatic."

Rowan leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips, "But you're mine."

--------------------------------------------------------—

[moonlitstoriess]

Hellllloooo!!! I am such a H UGE fan of you binding lies series, thank you so much for every little bit of your brilliance you share with us 🥂💛 You write Eris with such lovely depth, and the simmering, begrudging, partnership between him and the fmc is ✨delicious✨ I hope June has been a good month for you.

Hii!! Aww that’s so sweet, I am so happy that you have enjoyed it so far!! My June has been great and I hope that it has been like that for you too🫶🏻 Thank you so much for the support, lovie🥹

[moonlitstoriess]

Binding Lies- Eris Vanserra x fem!reader (mini-series) part 10

Summary: When Y/N, Azriel's secret half-sister who lives far away, and Eris Vanserra form a strategic contractual marriage to further their own agendas, what begins as a carefully crafted arrangement soon becomes more complicated. As they pretend to be a perfect couple, the lines between duty and desire blur, and neither is prepared for the consequences.

See masterlist

Previous part

Warnings: some slight angst, fluff

"Because you're here"

The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the heat of last night's words still clung to the air. Y/N lay on her side, back to the room but her eyes were very much open.

She hadn't turned once throughout the night. Not because she'd fallen asleep peacefully--no. Her body had been tense beneath the covers, her mind playing and replaying the moment Eris entered the room with that infuriating blanket and pillow like he owned the place.

And now, as the sunlight tiptoed past the drapes and spilled across the floor, she heard the slow stretch of leather, a faint grunt, and the rustle of fabric. He was awake.

She didn't move.

Not until she heard him say, voice low and hoarse from sleep, "You always this still when you sleep?"

Y/N rolled onto her back, slowly. Her voice came out even colder than she intended. "Wouldn't know. Didn't get much of it."

Eris sat up on the couch, running a hand through his hair, his shirt wrinkled and clinging slightly to his chest. "Neither did I," he muttered. Then, more pointedly, "We'll talk. Later. Properly this time."

"Later," she repeated, voice laced with challenge.

There was a moment of silence. His eyes searched hers for something--she didn't know what--but when he rose to his feet, she forced herself to not watch the way he moved. He didn't speak again. Just left the room, closing the door behind him.

Y/N exhaled the breath she'd been holding, the tension in her shoulders loosening just slightly. Whatever had happened last night, whatever this stranger emotional ceasefire was...it couldn't last.

Not with everything still hanging between them. Not with the card.

She sat up, her movements slow and calculated. Her ribs--miraculously--barely hurt at all anymore. As she dragged her fingers through her tangled hair and reached for the cup filled with water, her eyes flicked to the desk. Empty. The card was still gone. With Niera.

And soon, she'd need answers.

The scent of cedarwood clung into the air as Eris adjusted the cuffs of his tunic, standing in front of the gilded mirror within his and Y/N's shared bedchamber. Though the bed behind him remained untouched on one side. Her side. Right, she was in the other room.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his tousled auburn hair. His reflection stared back with a frown etched too deep for a morning this early.

Last night hadn't gone the way he'd expected. Not that he expected much anymore when it came to Y/N. She was unpredictable. Sharp-tongued. Daringly reckless. And now....someone who has healed faster than anyone he had ever seen before. Seriously, the Y/N from two days ago and the one he saw last night, in terms of injury, were completely different.

She was quite literally on the verge of death and now, in a matter of hours, she is already walking around just fine. Not that he wasn't relieved, it's just...since when did Autumn have such good healers?

His jaw tightened.

He scoffed under his breath. "Liar," he muttered, though he couldn't quite decide if he meant her deception...or himself. She was hiding something. Something she didn't want want anyone to know about. Not even him. Especially not him.

Eris reached for the rings laid out on the dresser, slipping them onto his fingers one by one. The way she'd refused to speak to him--ignored him completely as if he were a passing breeze--still gnawed at the edge of his patience.

And yet tonight, she'd return to this room. He'd make sure of it. She had to. She needed a proper rest.

A pause.

He looked toward the untouched side of the bed. No. Maybe it's better if she didn't, actually. Not with Calanmai so close and him feeling....all types of things.

Calanmai. A spring Court tradition, yes, but like everything else, its reach bled through the realms. The air was already shifting. The pull in his veins stronger than he cared to admit. Fire magic stirred easier. Hunger simmered beneath his skin.

And she...she didn't even know what Calanmai was. He couldn't scare her away like that. He wouldn't.

He clenched his fists. If she found out--if she saw--if she even felt an ounce of what was beginning to stir inside him, she'd run. Or worse...she wouldn't. And then he'd-

A sudden flicker of black light blinked in the air beside his shoulder, and a rolled parchment dropped gently onto the table, as if the wind had set it down.

Eris stared at it.

No seal. No signature. No emblem.

But he didn't need one.

He recognized the texture, the precise folds of the paper.

His spy. The one he'd sent out to search about Y/N.

He unrolled it with careful fingers, eyes scanning the simple, elegant script.

"My prince, we must meet. I have all the information."

Nothing more.

But it was enough to have Eris's heart thrum once. Hard. Loud.

He folded the parchment back and stared into the mirror again, this time not seeing himself, but instead a woman with sharp words. Y/N, What are you hiding?

And why does it feel like I already know the answer?

He stepped away from the mirror, fingers still tight around the message.

Guess he will have to skip breakfast.

"What?!" Samira practically shrieked, her voice ricocheting off the walls like an alarm bell. "And you decided to hide all of this from me?!"

Y/N sat perched on the edge of the bed, legs tucked beneath the sheets for show--an illusion of fragility she didn't bother upholding anymore now that Samira knew the truth. Her spoon hovered above the half-finished bowl of broth as she raised a brow, calm in the face of the storm.

Y/N gave her a sheepish smile. "Well, technically, I just told you, so that's not hiding."

Samira gaped. "You--You-- You mean to tell me you bribed a healer, snuck a forbidden card out of that cursed house, got yourself healed in record time, and left me in the dark through all of it? Me?! I thought we were in this mess together!"

Y/N sipped a lukeworm soup and hummed. "That's a very dramatic way of putting it. But yes."

Samira looked one breath away from combusting. She began pacing, her robes swishing wildly as she stormed back and forth like a general preparing for battle. "That healer? Gods, you don't even know her!"

"She's young. Careful. Quick with her hands. And scared enough not to cross me."

"That is not reassuring."

"I've thought it through," Y/N cut in before Samira could spiral further. "All night, in fact, while Eris was snoring his ass off on the couch. Said he didn't sleep a wink. Lied to my face. That idiot."

Samira threw her hands up. "You should've told me! Or--gods, Y/N, do you realize how dangerous this is? This card--this Unmaker or whatever--we have no idea what it's tied to."

"I know." Y/N's voice lowered, eyes sharp. "That's exactly why I had to do something. I'm not stupid, Samira. I know I can't leave the palace again, not without guards following my every step, not without permission. You'll be watching me like a hawk and so will half of this cursed court. So I need a middle hand. Someone I trust."

Samira halted mid-pace, spinning toward her.

"No."

Y/N smirked. "Yes."

"No."

"Yes," Y/N said again, firm. "I need you to be the in-between. I can't meet with Niera again so soon. But you can. Carefully. Quietly. Pass messages. Ask questions. Get updates, progresses."

"And then what?" Samira hissed. "Then we all burn?"

Y/N tilted her head, calm despite the roiling anxiety in her chest. "Then I finally know the truth and I stop wondering what it means to be The Unmaker. Or why that thing in the forest knew my name. Or why the flames didn't burn me when Eris carried me out."

Samira crossed her arms, eyes narrowed. "You're going to get us both killed."

Y/N leaned back on her palms. "Maybe. But at least we'll die knowing things."

A long pause.

Then finally--grudgingly--Samira exhaled through her nose and dropped onto the bed beside her like a stone falling from a tower. "I hate how persuasive you are."

"I know."

"I hate that I'm going to do this."

"I'm grateful you are."

Another beat. "If anyone asks, I was seduced by your brilliance and corrupted by your charm."

Y/N snorted. "I'll put it on your grave."

Samira smacked her arm.

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of it all stretching between them. Y/N turned her gaze towards the window, where the morning sun filtered in just a bit too cheerily for the kind of mess they were both now in.

Her curiosity wasn't going to rest. And maybe--maybe--neither would the truth anymore.

The leaves of the Autumn Court whispered as they always did--sweeping in copper-red spirals over the moss-drenched ground, dancing like fire without flame. Eris leaned against the twisted trunk of an old, gnarled tree, its bark cool against his back as he stared out at the forested cliffs below.

Sunlight fractured through the canopy, slanting golden against the russet hues. A wind brushed past, carrying the scent of charred wood and falling apples. Normally, this was the kind of place he found peace in.

Today, it only worsened the tension coiled in his chest like a beast waiting to snap its jaws. He tapped his gloved fingers against his thigh, counting the seconds. Alaric was never late.

And yet Eris' nerves refused to calm. He was about to receive information...about her. Fully. Truly.

He heard the footfalls before he saw the man. Soft, calculated steps breaking through the rustle of leaves. Alaric emerged through the treeline like a wraith--his hood down, golden hair pulled back messily, a blade strapped to his thigh, a satchel slung across his back. His lean, sharp features were unreadable as always, eyes the dull gold of worn coin.

"Prince," Alaric greeted, bowing his head in respect.

"You're late," Eris said coldly, though it wasn't true.

Alaric didn't bother explaining. He unslung the satchel and crouched beside a flat-topped rock, pulling out a stack of files, scrolls, parchment--gathered and bound with exacting precision.

"This," he said quietly, "is everything. Every piece of her I could find. All the information ranging from her favourite colour to her entire ancestry tree. All the details are here but I will tell you the overall summary."

Eris stared at the stack. "Then start talking."

Alaric nodded once. "As she claims, she was raised in the coastal quarters of Montesere. Working class. Her mother, as you know, is alive but truly ill. From all accounts, Y/N has done everything for her--sacrificed schooling, work, even relationships to care for her. They moved around often in her childhood, never staying in one city more than a few seasons."

Eris's throat tightened despite himself. "And her father?"

"That's where things shift."

Alaric placed another thinner file to the side. "Her records show no father ever listed on paper. But there were whispers in Montesere. I followed them."

Eris crossed his arms, jaw clenched. "Get to the point."

"For the most part," Alaric said, eyes flicking up, "she is who she says she is. Her intentions, her background, her reasons for accepting your plan--all true. She's kept her head down, protected her mother, lived modestly. But- "

"But?" Eris's voice was a warning now.

Alaric touched the file. "That's just the surface. These files...they hold everything. Her family's history, bloodlines, even her favorite damn dessert. I wanted to prepare you before you looked at it yourself."

Eris pushed off the tree. "Prepare me for what?"

Alaric didn't answer.

"Alaric." Eris grabbed him by the shoulders roughly, eyes blazing. "Prepare me for what?! Spit it out or I'll- "

"Her father," Alaric said tightly, holding his gaze, "was not just some passing merchant or traveler. He wasn't even from Montesere."

Eris's grip tightened. "So?"

Alaric exhaled like the weight of it might crush him. "Her mother had a brief affair--fleeting, hidden. She never told anyone--well, except Y/N--the name or identity, scared of the shame it would bring. But I traced it. I followed the trail. And I'm sure."

A pause.

"Azriel," Alaric said, barely above a whisper, "the Shadowsinger of the Night Court...is Y/N's half-brother. They share the same father."

Silence. Then Eris's hands dropped slowly to his sides.

The leaves of the Autumn Court kept dancing.

The room smelled of crushed lavender and stale bandages.

Y/N sat propped against the pillows, her face carefully schooled into the expression of someone still weakened--though her body no longer throbbed with that sharp ache in her ribs. Not anymore. She’d made sure Niera healed her well, quickly, thoroughly. But the performance had to continue. The bruises were painted on with faint illusion, the stiff movements calculated.

Because even though Samira now knew the truth, the rest of the court didn't. And these types of injuries didn't heal in a day. Let them all believe she was still the broken, recovering wife of the Autumn Court heir.

The High Lady had come earlier, all clipped words and polite concern. Two different court healers had fluttered in after that, their hands cold and curious. She had played the part well--half-flinching, wincing just enough, offering vague words and weak smiles. They left satisfied. Fooled.

Y/N’s gaze drifted to the faintly open window. The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting golden lines over the floor. Her mind should have been on the plan--the card, Niera, the risks. Instead, it wandered.

Where was he?

It had been a few hours since she last saw him. No sightings. No messages. Not a whisper of Eris Vanserra in the halls.

Typical. She wasn’t even sure why she cared. Maybe because they had left so much unsaid. Or maybe because part of her hated how he could vanish like mist, how he could disappear without explanation and still take a piece of her peace with him.

They were supposed to talk. Weren’t they?

She shook her head, grounding herself. No. Focus.

Her eyes flicked to Samira, who was busy scribbling something behind a small privacy screen. Y/N had already instructed her, in hushed tones earlier that morning, to seek out Niera and deliver a message. To act as the middle, to be cautious but thorough.

“This is risky,” Samira had whispered. “You’re risking too much.”

“I know,” Y/N had said. “But curiosity will be the death of me if I don’t.”

Now, as the air in the room shifted slightly, a hush fell over her thoughts.

The door clicked.

Her eyes snapped up--and froze.

Eris entered.

Not a servant. Not another healer. Not a courier.

It was him.

Just him.

Her thoughts scattered as their eyes met across the room.

"Get out, Samira."

Y/N watched Samira freeze mid-scribble, her back tensing. "Are you serious right now?" she snapped turning around. "Why are you always kicking me out?"

Eris didn't even blink. "Don't test me."

Y/N didn't speak. She just watched him.

Samira pushed past him aggressively as she left, muttering curses loud enough for him to hear.

Eris remained near the door for a moment after she left, as if deciding whether he wanted to come closer. His eyes raked over her--not in that usual calculating way, but more...assessing. Careful. Almost like he didn't trust himself to move without unraveling.

But he did move eventually, slower than usual, and took the chair beside her bed. He didn't lean back like he normally would, didn't cross his legs or rest an arm over the side. He just...sat.

His silence wasn't hostile this time. It was almost contemplative.

"I didn't come here to fight," he said at last.

"Good," she murmured, gaze still locked on him. "Because I'm too tired for round two."

He gave a soft huff of breath--something between a sigh and a quiet laugh--and rubbed the back of his neck. "I...wanted to talk. Not argue."

Y/N didn't answer right away. Her fingers played with a loose thread on her blanket. "So talk."

He was quiet for another few seconds. "Last night got out of hand."

She lifted an eyebrow. "You think?"

That earned her a small smirk. "Okay it was a disaster."

"A disaster you started."

"You leaped out of bed and shouted at me."

"You disappeared for a day without a single word--again."

His smile faded, replaced with something tighter, wearier. "I know. I know that wasn't right."

Y/N studied him. He looked tired. But more than that, there was a tightness to him today. His posture. His eyes. Something just slightly off.

And yet...he was trying.

"I didn't leave because of the kiss," he said suddenly.

Her heart stumbled.

"I left because I have a whole plan to forge in order to take Beron down. And also because...I needed time to think."

Y/N looked away. "You could've said something. Anything."

"I didn't know how."

His voice was quieter now. Almost unsure. Eris Vanserra, unsure.

"You don't have to run away every time things get complicated," she murmured. "Not everything's a battlefield."

There was a pause.

"I'm learning that," he said. "Slowly."

The silence that folowed wasn't awkward this time. It was soft. Bare. A shared quiet. An in that quiet, he finally leaned forward.

"You're my wife," he said, more firmly now. "And whether you like it or not, it's my job to protect you. I can't do that if you keep sneaking off into unknown places the Mother knows when, making reckless deals with unknown people."

Her lips twitched. "You're one to talk about recklessness."

"I never claimed to be innocent," he said with a small grin. "But I need you to atleast meet me halfway."

Y/N tilted her head. "So you're saying you want...rules?"

"Not rules. Boundaries. A...truce, maybe."

A truce.

She didn't say anything for a moment. Then, quietly, she nodded. "Okay. A truce."

His shoulders relaxed. Just a little. But she noticed it. The tension didn't disappear entirely--it lingered in the corners of his eyes, in the way his jaw stay clenched for too long after he smiled.

"Is everything alright?" she asked gently.

He looked at her then--really looked--and for a moment she thought he might actually tell her something important. Something he was holding back.

But then he blinked and looked away. "Yeah," he said too quickly. "Everything's fine."

Liar.

Still, she didn't press. Not now. But she will. Especially on the fact that he isn't including her or needing her help in his grand plan.

Instead, she let the quiet stretch again, this time a little more comfortable. He stood then--slowly--and walked to the window, pulling the curtains slightly wider so the light could reach her better.

She caught herself staring at the sunlight haloing his hair, at the faint line of tension in his shoulders that he tried to mask with ease.

"Thank you," she said, just a squietly.

He turned.

"For not yelling," she added, smirking slightly.

His smile returned--this time, softer. "Don't get used to it."

But then he took a step closer. Not too close. Just enough. His fingers brushed her hand--barely a touch. A whisper of skin against skin.

Her pulse quickened.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said softly. "No matter how mad you are. You're not alone in this."

She wanted to believe him. Gods, she really did. But something in his eyes said there were still things he wasn't teling her. Still, she didn't pull her hand away. Not this time.

And when he finally left the room--without slamming the door, for once--her fingers still tingled from that brief touch.

The moment Alaric had said the name, Eris hadn’t moved.

Azriel.

The Shadowsinger.

For a heartbeat, he felt as if the entire forest had fallen into silence. The wind had stilled. The rustle of leaves had ceased. Only his heart had thundered--loud, vicious, like it might break something on its way out.

He had stared at Alaric, not saying a word.

Not punching a tree.

Not cursing.

Not demanding confirmation again.

He just… stood.

Stood there while all the pieces began to click into place. Quietly. Cruelly.

The way she’d gone still whenever Azriel’s name was mentioned. The faint glimmer of recognition she never voiced. Her evasiveness. Her buried rage at being kept in the dark by everyone--him included. And that eerie feeling he’d had from the start: that her secrets weren’t born of ambition, but protection.

She wasn’t just anyone.

She was Azriel’s sister.

And she didn’t even know he knew.

He still hadn’t told her.

Not after their fight. Not after their calm conversation this morning. Not even when she’d looked at him with narrowed eyes and asked if everything was alright.

He hadn’t told her because he didn’t know what he’d do with the knowledge yet. Because he didn’t trust himself not to say something he couldn’t take back. Because--

Because, gods, what would she do if she knew he had her entire truth laid bare on a table?

So, he left.

He needed clarity.

He needed answers.

He needed Azriel.

Not because he gave a damn about courtesy, but because if the bastard already knew she was here--knew who she was married to--then this had never been a game of strategy.

It had been a trap. One he’d walked into.

And if he didn’t confront that now, before word slipped into the wrong court, then everything he’d built--his plan, his control, even her--would crumble faster than flame devoured paper.

So the second he’d returned from the forest, Eris had sent word. No names. No crests. Just one sealed message, worded in a way only someone like Azriel would understand: A private matter. Urgent. Meet me alone.

It hadn’t taken long to get a response.

Now, as he rode through the quieter, colder stretch of the forest beyond the palace borders, the golden-red leaves of Autumn blurred past him like dying embers. His horse’s hooves struck the dirt in sharp rhythm, and yet he heard none of it. He heard only his own mind repeating the same question again and again.

Does Azriel know?

He tightened the reins.

If he did…

Eris didn’t know what he’d do.

And if he didn’t…

Then he held all the cards.

He exhaled sharply as the narrow trail widened into a small clearing. Trees loomed tall around him, silent witnesses to what was coming. The wind was colder here. Harsher.

A perfect place for secrets to be exchanged.

For truths to crack everything open.

Eris swung off the saddle and took a few slow steps forward, hands behind his back, jaw clenched.

Now all that remained was to wait.

To face the male who may or may not know that the blood he shared with Y/N ran deeper than either of them had ever let on.

The wind shifted before the shadows did.

One moment the clearing was empty, the next--he was there. Silent as breath. Cloaked in black, leeching the sunlight from the trees around him, Azriel stepped forward like he'd always belonged in the darkness.

Eris didn't flinch. He merely arched a brow, keeping his stance as casual, leaning back against the tree as though he hadn't been waiting for answers that could change everything.

Azriel's eyes flicked once over him. Assessing. Calculating.

"You said it was urgent," the shadowsinger said, voice like gravel and steel.

Eris offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Did I?"

Azriel's stare sharpened.

"It's urgent enough," Eris drawled. "I wanted to speak about surveillance. Between Autumn and the Night Court."

Azriel didn't move. "You're the one who always insists no spies from your side ever slip across."

"And I still do," Eris said with a smirk. "But I think we both know that's not entirely true. Nor is it a one-sided offense."

Azriel folded his arms. "If you're trying to accuse- "

"I'm not," Eris cut in smoothly. "I'm proposing coordination. We've both had...incursions lately. Rogue operatives, strange reports, movements that don't make sense. I thought it might be wise if you and I kept a direct line. Less court politics. More results."

He watched Azriel's face carefully.

Nothing.

Not a flicker of recognition. Not a twitch of discomfort. Not a glance that said I know you have my sister.

Good.

Or bad.

He didn't know.

But it was something.

Azriel tilted his head. "You've never cared for results outside your own borders."

"Well, you're not the only one who changes, Shadowsinger." Eris pushed off the tree, dusting imaginary bark from his sleeve. "And besides, it's not as though your court has no secrets of his own."

Still nothing.

Not even when Eris added, with calculated care, "Or missing pieces."

Azriel's brows furrowed faintly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like." Eris waved a hand lazily. "Strange things are happening. People are moving. The balance is shifting."

Azriel's jaw flexed, his expression unreadable. But no--there was no sign. No defence. No oh, you mean my sister?

Just...guarded confusion. Genuine.

So Eris knew.

Azriel didn't.

He had no idea.

And that--Gods, that changed everything.

It wasn't just a secret now. It was power. It was leverage.

It was a thread only he held in his hand.

"I'll think about your proposal," Azriel finally said, his voice curt.

"Do," Eris replied, stepping forward, tone as easy as a fox near a henhouse. "We'll coordinate monthly. Quietly. Just the two of us. As a gesture of mutual interest."

Azriel's eyes narrowed. "What exactly are you trying to gain, Vanserra?"

Eris's smile was razor sharp. "Peace of mind."

That was all he said.

That was all he needed to say.

As Azriel gave him a final nod and vanished into mist and shadow, Eris exhaled slowly.

So, he didn't know. Not yet.

And until the moment came when he needed to--Eris would make sure it stayed that way.

Because now, he had a new game to play. A new piece on the board.

And the rules had just changed.

"Come with me," Eris said.

Y/N arched a brow, still nestled in the mound of pillows. "I'm supposed to be pretending to be wounded, remember?"

Eris leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "It's been three days. You can start walking again--slowly. I made sure of that."

A sigh slipped from her lips as she shifted her legs off the bed. "You really are relentless."

"I've been called worse," he murmured, a glimmer of amusement flickering in his amber eyes.

She scoffed. “You made that happen, didn’t you?”

He didn’t answer, just gave her that look. The one that said you know I did.

“You’re lucky I’m a good actress.”

“You’re lucky I’m patient,” he shot back, stepping aside as she approached, brushing past him. “Don’t make me carry you again.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she muttered.

Their footsteps echoed faintly through the quieter, older parts of the palace--deserted corridors few still used. The walls were darker here, heavy with old wood and worn tapestries, and the air cooler, like the stones themselves remembered secrets no one dared speak aloud. Eris didn’t speak, and for once, neither did she.

He led her through a side passage, then another hidden staircase, until they reached a set of tall, arched doors guarded by two sentinels. They bowed the moment they saw Eris and opened the doors without question.

The moment she stepped inside, Y/N halted in her tracks.

It was not a room--it was a cathedral of sunlight.

The chamber was round and enormous, its ceiling impossibly high and domed in red-gold glass. Sunlight spilled through the circular stained-glass window at the top, casting long, fractured rays across the marble floor like a divine spotlight. Ruby and amber hues danced across the walls, glinting off bronze candelabras and velvet banners stitched with fire.

But it was what stood in the center that made her breath catch.

A pedestal. No--an altar.

Upon it, beneath a delicate dome of glass, rested the crown.

Not just any crown--the Autumn Court’s royal crown. Wrought of deep gold, molten as the sun, adorned with sharp blood-red garnets and shadowy obsidian stones. It gleamed as if it breathed with its own heat, regal and violent and ancient all at once.

She blinked. “Is that the real one?”

Eris stepped beside her, his voice oddly distant. “The original. The one worn by the first High Lord of Autumn. It hasn’t been touched in decades.”

She swallowed. “It looks… heavy.”

“It is,” he murmured. “Not just in weight.”

Y/N took a step closer, the light catching the strands of her hair, painting fire across her skin. She couldn’t tear her eyes from it.

“It’s strange,” she said softly. “I thought it would feel more… sacred. But it’s just sitting there. Like something waiting.”

Eris chuckled darkly beside her. “That’s exactly what it’s doing.”

She turned her head. “Waiting for what?”

“For someone willing to wear it.”

Their eyes met. A beat passed.

“I’ve worn it once,” he admitted, gaze drifting back to the crown. “In secret. Just to see how it felt.”

She raised an eyebrow, teasing. “And?”

He hesitated. “It didn’t fit.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Didn’t fit your head, or didn’t fit… you?”

He didn’t answer.

They stood there, side by side, for a long moment. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but heavy, threaded with the unspoken. Finally, Eris broke it.

“You know why my mother’s crown isn’t here?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Because the High Lady gets to choose her own crown,” he said. “She crafts it herself. Symbolically. It’s not passed down.”

Y/N scoffed. “Well, no need to worry about me. Once Beron is dead and my mother is well again, our little deal is done. You can go crown whatever simpering lady you want.”

Eris’s entire body seemed to tense at that. Not overtly--but enough that she noticed.

“I’m serious,” she said, eyeing him. “You get to be free. Finally. Of me. Of this arrangement. And I’ll go back to being a nobody in Montesere.”

Still, he said nothing. Just stared at the crown.

“What?” she pressed, voice quieter now.

He gave a faint shake of his head. “Nothing.”

“Eris,” she said, voice low, cautious. “Talk to me.”

He met her eyes. And this time, there was something in them she hadn’t seen before. Not fire. Not smugness. Not flirtation.

Uncertainty. Wariness. And something far more vulnerable.

“Do you think I’ll be a good High Lord?” he asked, like he wasn’t sure if he believed it himself.

Her breath caught. She hadn’t expected him to say that.

“I think…” She stepped closer, her voice gentler now. “You could be a great one. If you let yourself be.”

That made him look away.

“You’re more than your father,” she said. “More than your family name. I see it. You just refuse to.”

Another silence. But this time, it was warm.

Their eyes met again, and for the first time in a while, there was no edge between them. No bite. Just quiet understanding.

“Thank you,” he said, so softly she almost didn’t hear it.

She gave a half-smile. “Don’t make it a habit.”

He smirked faintly. “Never.”

She laughed under her breath. He offered his arm, and this time--just this once--she didn’t hesitate.

And as they stepped out of the crown room, the sunlight trailing behind them like smoke, neither noticed how the guards subtly bowed their heads--not just to Eris Vanserra.

But to her.

The halls of the Autumn Court were quiet as they walked, the only sounds of their soft footsteps echoing against golden-red stone. Eris kept a hand slightly at the small of her back, guiding her through turns and staircases--his mind nowhere near the path. It was still in that room, with the crown glinting like fire under sunlight, and her voice echoing in his ears: "You can and will be a good High Lord."

She had no idea what those words did to him.

When they were nearing her chamber again, Eris slowed, then suddenly turned down another corridor.

Y/N halted. "Wait. This isn't the way."

He didn't glance back. "It's fine. Come along."

"Eris- "

"Shh." He cast her a sharp, amused glance over his shoulder. "Trust me for once."

Against her better judgment, she followed.

They wound through servants’ halls and long-forgotten stairwells, the deeper passageways of the palace that most had never seen. Finally, they emerged before a set of enormous double doors--aged mahogany carved with roaring flame, autumn leaves, and wolves of legend.

Without ceremony, he pushed the doors open.

Warm, golden light spilled across polished marble.

It was an empty ballroom.

But not just any ballroom.

One of the oldest wings in the Autumn Court--unused, untouched, undisturbed by the noise of court life. Dust hovered lazily in beams of sunlight that poured through high stained-glass windows, painting the room in molten reds and burnished golds. The silence was thick and reverent, broken only by the soft click of her boots as she stepped inside behind him.

Her breath caught audibly. “What is this?”

“A place to breathe,” he said quietly. “And a place to move.”

She turned to him. “Move?”

“You’ve been in bed for too long,” he said. “If you want the court to believe your healing is real, you have to start acting like it.”

She blinked. “So you brought me here for… what? Physical therapy?”

“Call it whatever you want.”

She gave him a flat look.

He smirked slightly. “You’ll like this part.”

With a subtle flick of his fingers, a shadow moved from one of the corners.

A man stepped forward--tall, silver-haired, holding a worn violin.

Y/N’s eyes widened. “No.”

Eris’s smirk widened into something more dangerous. “Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

But the violinist raised his bow.

A single note rang out. Clear, slow, aching.

Eris turned to her, extended his hand, palm up. “Care for a dance?”

She stared at him like he’d grown antlers.

“Dancing? Now?”

“I could drag you into a sparring match if you prefer.”

She scoffed.

He took a step closer, voice lower. “Y/N.”

She stared at his hand for a moment longer, weighing something in her expression. Then, with visible reluctance and a muttered curse under her breath, she placed her hand in his.

Warmth shot up his arm like wildfire.

He almost flinched.

The violinist continued, spinning a slow melody that filled the room like smoke.

Eris placed his other hand gently at her waist and began to move.

She followed, stiff at first, clearly uncomfortable.

“Relax,” he said quietly.

“I haven’t danced in ages,” she muttered.

“Then you’re overdue.”

Their feet brushed against ancient marble in slow, even steps. The weight of their bodies matched and shifted with each motion, guided by instinct more than practice. Her hand rested lightly against his shoulder, but he could feel the tension--how close she really was. The way the sunlight caught the glint in her eyes. The slight stutter of her breath every time their bodies came just a little too close.

He was not immune.

His body was a battlefield, and Calanmai was creeping ever closer.

Every part of him that had been honed to resist--to deflect, to contain--was screaming to cave.

But he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Still, he allowed himself this. Just this.

A slow, quiet moment where their movements created something that resembled peace. Something that felt real.

“How long has it been since you danced?” she asked softly, surprising him.

His lips twitched. “Longer than I care to admit.”

Her eyes flicked up to his. “And yet you’re not half bad.”

He raised a brow. “Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

He chuckled lowly, the sound more genuine than he’d intended.

The song shifted slightly, deepening, becoming something closer to a waltz. She moved more naturally now, no longer second-guessing her steps. He barely had to guide her. They spun beneath the chandeliers, their feet a whisper on the floor.

She was beautiful.

He knew it already. But here, in this soft light, with the faintest smile curling her lips, her eyes no longer filled with fire or cold indifference--he felt it in his bones.

The violin reached a crescendo.

Their hands tightened slightly.

He didn’t mean to lean in. Didn’t mean to breathe her in like that.

But--

Gods.

Their faces were close. Too close.

One more step and she’d be in his arms for real.

He almost--

No.

He stepped back. Abruptly. Too fast.

She blinked, startled by the break in motion.

Eris cleared his throat, retreating behind his usual mask. “That’s enough.”

“You sure?” she said, confused.

He didn’t meet her eyes. “You’ve moved. That’s what matters.”

The violin fell silent.

He turned, walking briskly toward the door. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

She didn’t move right away. He knew that without looking.

She was watching him, probably with narrowed eyes, probably wondering what the hell had just happened.

So was he.

But better this--better her confused and safe--than him risking whatever was clawing at the surface of his restraint.

Especially now.

Especially with Calanmai so close.

He would not lose control.

Not again.

The scent hit him first.

Smoke.

But not the kind from the hearth.

No, this was sharper--burned parchment, ink, wax seals, silk ribbons. The acrid tang of something sacred violated. Something lost. Eris's steps faltered as he approached his private study, a chill running down his spine despite the ever-burning Autumn warmth.

He reached for the doorknob.

It was warm.

Too warm.

He shoved the door open.

Silence.

Then chaos.

The room looked like it had been caught in a storm. Drawers pulled out and cast aside. Cabinets cracked open, their contents dumped across the floor. Shelves toppled, chairs overturned. And in the center of it all, a scorched desk still smolderin--ash and embers dancing in the air like snowfall in hell.

He stood there for a heartbeat, unmoving.

Then another.

Then--

“No,” he muttered, low and dangerous.

He strode forward, boots crunching over the remains of papers that had once been plans--his plans. Months--years--of strategies. Letters exchanged in coded ink. Parchments that tracked Beron’s network of spies. Hidden maps, military coordinates, bribes, sealed orders--gone.

Burned.

All of it.

But one horror surged above the rest, crashing like a tidal wave over everything else.

He turned sharply toward the locked drawer behind his desk--hidden behind an enchanted panel only he and Alaric knew how to open. His heart thudded wildly in his chest as he muttered the unlocking spell and forced the small compartment open.

Empty.

Gone.

The folder. The sealed leather scroll case. Every page Alaric had handed him about Y/N--her life, her past, her bloodline, her secrets,her consent to this entire plan, the truth--all of it…

Gone.

Ashes clung to the inside of the drawer like a final insult.

He stared into the blackened void.

No one should have known where he kept it.

No one should have been able to get past the wards.

Unless…

He straightened, his breath slow, measured, as fury boiled just beneath the surface. Not rage at the loss alone, but at what it meant. At who it meant.

Whoever had done this--this wasn’t just sabotage. This was a warning.

Or a threat.

Or both.

Eris didn’t move for a long moment.

Then, quietly, too quietly, he whispered to the empty room:

“Someone’s playing a dangerous game.”

And this time, the fire that flickered in his eyes wasn’t born from magic.

It was born from vengeance.

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[moonlitstoriess]

Jealousy Wears Fur - Rhysand x fem!reader (oneshot)

Summary: Y/N's new kitten--gifted by Rhysand himself--quickly becomes the center of her world. Rhys tries to hide his growing jealousy but fails spectacularly. Cue soft chaos, playful banter, and a High Lord who just wants his mate's attention back.

Warnings: rhys being a jealous prick, fluff.

see masterlist

The townhouse was unusually quiet that morning, bathed in soft Velaris sunlight that streamed through the high windows and scattered gold across the rug. Rhysand stood in the sitting room, arms crossed as he stared at a simple cardboard box placed delicately on the low table in front of him. It didn't look like much--just a box with a few small holes poked through the sides--but inside, nestled in a blanket the color of moonlight, was something far more precious than the packaging suggested.

A gift.

Not one meant to impress or dazzle. No--this was something softer, gentler. Something that might make her smile the way she did when she thought no one was watching. Something she could hold on quiet nights when sleep eluded her, when he wasn't there. Something to comfort her, like she so often comforted everyone else.

Rhys's gaze softened as he imagined her reaction. His mate. His high lady.

So beautiful it ached sometimes. So strong it terrified him in the best way. She had been burning herself down to embers lately--working longer hours with the city healer's, meeting with Night Court officials in the evenings, barely sparing time for rest. Even when she did collapse into bed, it was always with one arm flung over her eyes, breath coming out in a sigh like she'd been holding it all day.

And he hated that he couldn't do more. That all his power, all his status meant nothing when it came to quiet exhaustion and unseen weight.

So, he had gone for something simple. Something living. A tiny black-and-white kitten with wide blue eyes and an ear that flopped slightly to one side. She was impossibly small and impossibly curious--much like her soon-to-be owner.

The kitten let out a soft mewl from inside the box.

Rhys smiled slightly and knelt beside it, brushing his fingers along the rim of the lid to reassure the little creature. "Not yet," he murmured. "She'll be here soon."

He had called for her moments ago--just vague enough to be believable. Something about an urgent matter at the townhouse. Not a lie, exactly. Just...a creative bending of the truth. Because it was important, at least to him. Important that she knows that she was seen. Cared for. Loved, in ways she didn't always realize.

Another soft sound came from the box, followed by a shuffle of tiny paws. Rhys chuckled under his breath.

And then-

"Rhys?"

He turned at the sound of her voice--melodic, warm, unmistakably hers. She stood at the doorway, brows drawn slightly together in concern.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, eyes scanning the room. "You said it was urgent?"

Rhys straightened, smoothing the faintest grin off his face before turning fully to her.

She stood just inside the threshold, framed by the doorway like some vision torn from the heavens. Windswept hair, flushed cheeks from the rooftops of Velaris, the faint gleam of a blade still strapped to her thigh.

Beautiful. Fierce. Utterly his.

He masked the sudden rush of affection with a slow blink and an expression of casual gravity.

"It is urgent," he said smoothly, stepping towards her. "Incredibly urgent, in fact. A delicate situation requiring your attention."

Her eyes narrowed, not buying it for a second. "You're smirking."

"I'm always smirking."

"Smirking more, then."

A tiny rustle behind him nearly gave the whole thing away--a soft scritch of claws against cardboard. He shifted slightly, angling his body between her and the box like a wing shielding a secret.

Y/N's eyes flickered over his shoulder, suspicion deepening. "What's that?"

"Classified."

"Rhysand."

"High Lady," he said, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Have a little faith."

Her brows rose.

He sighed, dramatic. "Alright, alright. But come sit first."

He gestured toward the couch, then strolled over to the box and crouched beside it once more, glancing up at her with an infuriatingly innocent expression. "Just be...gentle and quiet."

"Why does that sound like something Azriel would say before unleashing a death beast?"

He grinned. "Because this one is much cuter."

With a flick of his wrist, the lid of the box vanished into a soft puff of violet mist.

Inside, nestled in the folds of a silver-and-midnight blanket, the kitten blinked up at them with its blue eys. Her fur was black with a white spot in the middle of her chest, like ink spilled over parchment, and she let out a small, questioning mewl as the light hit her face.

Rhys didn't look at the kitten though, he looked at Y/N.

Her breath caught--just for a second. Then her entire expression softened like thawing ice, shoulders lowering, lips parting in the barest gasp.

"Oh," she whispered. "Rhys..."

He said nothing at first, only watched her. Watched her kneel slowly beside him, as if afraid the spell might break. Watched her reach her tentative fingers into the box, eyes wide with wonder.

"She's...for me?" she asked, voice barely above a breath.

Rhysand's voice was quiet, his reply wrapped in silk and shadow. "You've been giving so much of yourself to everyone else lately. I thought...maybe it was time someone gave a little softness back."

And in that moment--watching his mate cradle the kitten to her chest, cooing in a voice he had never even heard her use before--Rhysand realized that he had made the greatest mistake of his immortal life.

At first, it had been endearing.

Y/N carried the tiny creature everywhere. She named her Nyxie--"because it's cute and vaguely threatening," she'd explained with a smirk. Rhys had pretended not to preen at the name, pretending it wasn't the smallest consolation in what was quickly becoming a tragic turn of events.

Because Nyxie, that furry little menace, had done something Rhys hadn't expected.

She'd replaced him.

It began subtly. The kitten would curl into Y/N's lap during breakfast, and instead of her usual habit of pressing a kiss to Rhys's cheek or carding her fingers through his hair while they read reports, her hands were now entirely occupied with with scratching tiny black ears. Rhys tried to lean his head on her shoulder once, only to be met with a firm but gentle "Don't jostle her, Rhys. She just got comfortable."

He'd blinked. "I was here first."

Y/N hadn't even looked up. "She's sleeping. You'll survive."

He most certainly would not.

By day three, things had escalated.

The kitten now slept on his side of the bed.

Y/N would fall asleep with Nyxie curled on her chest and Rhys exiled to the outermost edge of the mattress like some scorned lover. Which, technically, he was.

He woke one morning with a paw on his face and a tuft of fur up his nose.

"Darling," he'd said carefully one night, voice low as Y/N got into bed, kitten in hand. "I love you"

"I love you too," she murmured, kissing his cheek.

"No, I mean- I love you. Not the feline tyrant who's currently trying to take my place."

She giggled and reached over to stroke his hair. "Jealous much, High Lord?"

He smiled.

On the outside.

Inside, his soul wept.

One evening, the Inner Circle had come for dinner, and Cassian--traitor that he was--had taken one look at Rhys sulking in the corner while Nyxie lounged across Y/N's lap like a queen on a throne and howled with laughter.

"Is that really why you called us?" Cass choked out, wiping tears from his face. "Because your mate dumped you for a kitten?"

"I did not call you here for this," Rhys said coldly.

"I've never seen him this defeated." Azriel muttered from the corner.

"I am not defeated," Rhys snapped.

Amren, sipping blood-red wine, raised a brow. "You're literally loosing a battle to something that weighs three pounds."

Y/N, oblivious or perhaps delighting in the chaos, simply buried her nose into the kitten's fur and murmured, "He's just being dramatic."

Rhys stared at her. The female he loved. The female he would burn kingdoms for. The female who was now kissing the cat goodnight before him.

Truly, he had never known such betrayal.

The days passed, and with each one, Rhysand's quiet jealousy evolved--like a sickness he couldn't get rid of. Not the good kind of jealousy, either. No, this was soul-wrenching, deeply pathetic kind. The kind that made him, the most powerful High Lord in Prythian, question if he'd been replaced by a creature who couldn't even form thoughts.

The worst part? The kitten knew.

Nyxie would stare at him with those blue eyes, utterly unbothered, nestled in the crook of Y/N's neck like a smug little void demon. Once, she knocked Rhys's pen off his desk mid-report and then settled directly on the paperwork.

Y/N had laughed, scooping her up with a fond "She just wants a little attention, Rhys." and planting a kiss on her little head.

Rhys was certain that kitten had winked at him.

He tried to fight back, in small ways.

One night, he lit candles and filled the room with stars, a soft melody humming through the house. Y/N walked in, cradling Nyxie.

Romance was in the air.

And then-

"Oh no," she whispered, looking down at her arm. "She fell asleep again."

"Again?"

"Her little paw is twitching in her sleep, look how cute- "

"Darling, I can twitch too," he said flatly, gesturing at himself.

She didn't even hear him. She was too busy cooing over Nyxie.

He caught her mid-conversation with Elain one morning, whispering that Nyxie purred every time she said Rhys's name.

"That's a coincidence," he said from the doorway.

Y/N turned, blinking. "What is?"

"You said my name and she purred. You think that means she likes me?"

She smiled, glowing. "Of course she does."

Rhys blinked. The kitten hissed.

By the end of the week, the whispers had started. From himself.

You're her mate. Her husband. One day, the father of her child. You've fought in wars together. Surely you're not threatened by a kitten.

But then, he saw her cradling Nyxie like a babe, humming gently, eyes closed as she kissed the tiny head--and something inside Rhysand broke a little.

The turning point came the night he amde The Plan.

He sat in his study, hands steepled, Azriel across from him, blinking slowly like he regretted accepting the invitation.

"I just need her out of the house for an hour," Rhys murmured, eyes narrowing as he stared at the diagram he'd drawn of the townhouse. "Maybe Amren distracts her with something. Mor shows up with wine for Y/N to make her forget about it. Something."

Azriel stared. "You want me to help you...kidnap the cat?"

"It's not kidnapping, it's strategic relocation."

"To where?"

Rhys didn't answer right away.

Azriel said, "Y/N's going to kill you."

"I'll put her somewhere nice," he'd snapped. "Not far. Just...enough that Y/N remembers that she has a husband."

"She brought the kitten into the bath with her last night," Azriel deadpanned, "You think you can seperate them now?"

Rhysands silence was dark and long.

Azriel stood. "I'm not helping you."

"Coward."

"Dead man."

Later that night, Rhys stood at the doorway of their room, arms crossed, watching as Y/N read a book in bed--with the kitten curled on her stomach, purring like a tiny engine. Her fingers gently scratched under Nyxie's chin. She looked peaceful. Radiant.

Loved.

And it wasn't even him making her smile like that.

For a moment, the jealousy wasn't funny anymore. It was a slow, sinking ache. A guilt-twined sadness that maybe--just maybe--he'd given her something she needed more than him right now. That he hadn't even realised how much she'd been missing softness until she held it in her arms.

He sighed.

And went to sleep that night with his back to her, pretending not to notice when Nyxie flopped onto his pillow.

It happened on a rainy afternoon.

Velaris was veiled in soft gray mist, the sky low and humming with distant thunder. Y/N had tucked herself into the corner of the couch, legs curled beneath her, a mug of tea in one hand and Nyxie balancede contentedly in her other arm, swaddled in a blanket like she was made out of starlight.

Rhys watched from the opposite end of the room, a book open in his lap. He hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes.

The sound of purring filled the air between them like a barrier. Like static in his heart.

She was humming again. That same little tune she always used when she was holding the kitten. And Rhysand--High Lord of the Night Court, Son of the Hewn City, dark and mighty and terrifying--was loosing to a kitten with crooked ears and a smug expression.

Again.

He closed the book.

Y/N glanced up, smiling. "You okay?"

And something in him just...snapped.

"No," he said.

She blinked. "No?"

Rhys stood slowly, walked across the room, and then stopped in front of her like he didn't quite trust himself to sit. "I am not okay," he repeated. "In fact, I've been decidedly not okay for over a week."

Y/N straightened, eyes narrowing. "What happened?"

He gestured towards the blanket in her arms. "She happened."

There was a pause.

Then Y/N laughed.

Not just a giggle--a full, delighted, musical laugh that lit up the entire room. "Rhys, are you jealous of Nyxie?"

He crossed his arms. "Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not- oh, Mother above, I am- but only because of how ridiculous you're being."

"She's taken over everything!" he burst out, pacing now. "My side of the bed, my mate's attention, my pillow, Y/N. She used my head as a footstool last night and you let her."

"She was sleeping."

"I was sleeping too!" He stopped, turned, and looked at her. "I miss you."

Her laughter faded, expression softening. "Rhys..."

"I miss us. I miss the way you’d curl into me at night instead of curling around a fur-covered dictator. I miss your fingers in my hair. I miss being the one who got your sleepy kisses and your quiet laughs and your middle-of-the-night thoughts.” His voice cracked, just a little. “And I know it’s stupid, and I know I’m acting like a spoiled male, but I don’t want to share you with anyone--even if she’s small and purrs and has very soft paws.”

Y/N stared at him, lips parted in stunned silence.

Then, very slowly, she lifted Nyxie from her chest and set her gently on the armrest. The kitten blinked, offended but dignified, and promptly fell asleep.

And then Y/N reached for Rhys.

He stepped into her arms without hesitation, and the second she wrapped herself around him, he exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for days.

"You idiot," she whispered, pressing a kiss beneath his jaw. "You didn't loose me. You could never loose me."

"You say that, but she has very sharp claws."

She smiled against his neck. "You have wings and shadows and a crown made of stars. You win."

"Barely."

Y/N laughed again, warm and soft this time. "You should've just told me. You didn't have to spiral into full-blown secret cat relocation plots."

Rhys stiffened. "Who told you about that?"

"Azriel," she said sweetly. "Immediately."

He groaned and buried his face in her neck. "He's a traitor."

"He's a saint."

"Should've used Cassian."

"Please never do that."

They stood like that for a long while--quiet, wrapped around each other as the rain fell softly outside.

Eventually, Nyxie rolled over and gave a tiny, indignant chirp.

Y/N smiled and looked up at him. "You know there is room for both of you, right?"

Rhys sighed. "Only if I get my pillow back."

"No promises."

A few nights later, Rhysand awoke to a strange sensation.

Warmth at his back. A soft, rhythmic vibration against his ribs. And—he dared not open his eyes yet--the distinct tickle of fur brushing his jaw.

He cracked one eye open.

There, nestled between him and Y/N, was Nyxie. Flat on her back. All four paws in the air. Snoring softly.

Rhys stared at her.

She snorted in her sleep.

Y/N shifted beside him, her hand curling instinctively around his waist, her head tucked into his chest. Still asleep, completely at peace. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to have both of them there--her mate and her menace.

Rhys sighed quietly. One arm settled around Y/N’s shoulders. The other…well.

Very, very carefully, he rested a hand over the kitten’s ridiculously tiny belly.

She let out a content little mrrrp, but didn’t move.

Rhysand--High Lord of the Night Court, wielder of night and starlight, feared across continents--whispered the quietest, most reluctant surrender of his life:

“…Fine.”

And somewhere in the depths of sleep, Y/N smiled.

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[moonlitstoriess]

Binding Lies- Eris Vanserra x fem!reader (mini-series) part 9

Summary: When Y/N, Azriel's secret half-sister who lives far away, and Eris Vanserra form a strategic contractual marriage to further their own agendas, what begins as a carefully crafted arrangement soon becomes more complicated. As they pretend to be a perfect couple, the lines between duty and desire blur, and neither is prepared for the consequences.

See masterlist

Previous part

Next part

Warnings: angst, slight fluff in the end, not proofread

The world returned to her in fragments.

A dull ache pulsed at her side, each throb anchoring her back to the present. Her body felt too heavy for the bed she lay on--if it even was a bed. The fabric beneath her fingers was too soft, the air too quiet. No smoke. No fire.

Only stillness.

Y/N's lashes fluttered. Pain licked her ribs as she shifted. A hiss escaped her lips before she could stop it.

"Don't move"

The voice was low. Rough. Familiar.

Eris.

But she didn't open her eyes right away. She let her other senses sharpen first. There was the subtle crack of a fire--not the kind that destroyed, but one tamed and burning in a hearth. The scent of clean linens. Blood. Herbs.

And him.

That scent she knew now, whether she liked it or not, embers and something forest-wild beneath it.

Her lids lifted slowly.

She was in a bedroom--dimly lit, unfamiliar. The walls were draped in deep reds and golds, likely somewhere in the palace, but not their usual chambers. A private healing room?

Eris sat in a chair beside her, elbows resting on his knees, face pale and jaw clenched. His hair was damp like he had just washed blood off, and there was a fresh scratch trailing down one cheekbone.

She meant to glare at him.

But it didn't quite work--not when her body reminded her of the fight with every breath.

"What..." her voice cracked. "What happened?"

"You nearly got yourself killed," he said tightly, not looking at her.

"I was handling it," she muttered.

"You were bleeding out, Y/N."

That silenced her for a second.

Then she forced herself to sit up, only for fire to shoot through her side and her hands to fly to the wound. Bandages were wrapped tightly there.

"I said don't move," he repeated, standing this time.

"Don't tell me what to do," she snapped. "You weren't there when I needed you."

His eyes blazed. "And yet I was the one who pulled you out of that fire."

Their stares clashed. For a moment, the silence between them held a storm.

But her strength was waning, and the effort of sitting up was too much.

She slumped back into the pillows, chest rising and falling hard. "You didn't answer any of my questions."

"I will." His voice was quieter now, a little less sharp. "Just...not when you are coughing up blood."

She turned her head away from him, to the fire flickering on the far wall. Her body felt like it had been cracked open and stitched back together with the rawness of what had happened.

She wasn't about to ask about the creature. Or the card still tucked in her cloak pocket--The Unmaker.

And yet, all those questions still burned inside her, just as fiercely as the fire they had escaped.

The door creaked open with soft urgency, and before Y/N could even fully register the sound, a familiar blur of blue and gold darted into the room.

"Samira," she whispered, her lips twitching in the faintest smile.

Samira didn't even glance at Eris--not once. She rushed straight to Y/N's bedside, her usual calm and composed demeanour unraveling at the seams. She dropped to her knees, her hands trembling as she carefully reached out, brushing her fingers over Y/N's arm and then clasping her hand like she feared she might disappear again.

"Oh, thank the Mother," Samira breathed, her voice cracking. "You're alive."

Y/N blinked, overwhelmed for a heartbeat, before a teasing smile curled on her lips. "Are those tears I see, Samira?" she said, her voice still hoarse, but amused.

Samira scoffed and immediately smacked Y/N's hand lightly. "You wish. I just had something in my eye."

Y/N's laugh turned into a wince, her ribs protesting. She felt the smile falter on her lips, but only for a second.

That's when the sound of the door clicking shut broke through the quiet.

She didn't even have to look to know--it was him.

Oh, right. Eris. He was here. Now, he wasn't.

Good riddance.

Samira must've noticed the flicker of emotion pass through her face because her gaze sharpened like a blade. "What happened?" she asked.

"I..." Y/N began, but Samira raised a finger--stern, sharp, unrelenting.

"No, never mind that. What the hell were you thinking, sneaking out of the palace like that?" Samira hissed, her voice rising like a mother scolding a reckless child. "You could've died, Y/N. You nearly did. Do you know what I walked into? A room full of blood--and you, unconscious and practically dead!"

Y/N groaned and sank back into the pillows. "Oh gods, don't start."

"I will start and I won't stop," Samira snapped. "You've been here for weeks and you haven't even been injured once, at least not on my watch, and the one night I let you out of my sight, you find the creepiest fortune teller in all of the Autumn Court and nearly get killed?"

"Well, technically, she found me."

Samira glared.

"Okay, okay," Y/N grumbled. "I get it. It was stupid. I wasn't thinking."

"Thats the part that worries me," Samira muttered, reaching for the water on the bedside table and handing it to her. "You're always thinking."

Y/N accepted it with a grateful nod, sipping slowly. She watched Samira fuss--adjusting her pillows, fixing the edge of the blanket--as if keeping busy would help her calm down.

"I'm sorry," Y/N said after a pause, the words quiet but genuine.

Samira's shoulders slumped. "I know."

They sat in silence for a while, the air thick with unspoken things. Y/N's fingers twitched near her hip, brushing against the hidden pocket sewn inside her pants--the card.

The Unmaker.

The fortune teller's voice echoed in her head like a curse.

Who will I bring to ruin anyway?

For a fleeting second, she considered it. Pulling the card out, showing it to Samira, telling her everything. But...no.

Not yet.

First, she had to solve this on her own. Second, she wasn't ready. So, Y/N forced a smile instead and said "So...did anything interesting happen at the palace while I was gone?"

Samira gave her a look that was this close to strangling her and said, "Oh, I don't know. Maybe just a high-level emergency, Prince Eris nearly burning down half the woods, and me thinking I'd have to plan a royal funeral. But sure, let's talk about palace gossip."

Y/N chuckled again, this time without wincing. "Glad to know I was missed."

Samira narrowed her eyes but leaned back into the chair beside her, her expression finally softening. "Don't you ever do that again, Y/N."

"I'll try not to," she said. But the truth was--they both knew it wouldn't be that simple.

He stalked through the palace corridors like a phantom cloaked in rage. His steps were soundless, but his magic simmered beneath his skin like a wildfire begging to erupt.

He hadn't returned to their shared chambers after the kiss, opting to quickly change in his second chamber. He couldn't, wouldn't go back.

He had fled.

Coward.

That's what you are, Eris. That's what you will always be. She is lying on that bed, in that state because of you.

The kiss was not part of the plan. The plan was control. Leverage. Deceit.

She was supposed to be a pawn.

Not someone he burned for.

But her taste haunted his mouth. Her trembling hands still ghosted along his skin. Her laugh in the fountain--the real one, unguarded--had shattered something deep inside him. And when her lips had finally pressed against his...he had known, then, with dreadful clarity that this was more than a slip.

So he left.

The next morning, while she woke up alone, his blood ran cold with shame. And fear. Real fear--because if he let himself spiral into her, if he let himself want her, need her...she would destroy him.

So he threw himself into the only other thing that could root him: Beron.

The plan had been brewing for years. Quiet alliances. Promises made in shadows. Whispers passed through wine-stained letters and blood-marked tokens. And this week had been critical. Two lesser Autumun lords had shown signs of doubt in Beron's leadership after the last border incident. Eris met them both--individually, covertly--at a manor deep in the foothills of the court. Promises were made, secrets exchanged, oaths sworn. It was progress. Slow. Dangerous. But progress nonetheless.

And then...the second thing.

He'd ordered Alaric--his most trusted spy and informant--to dig into her. Y/N. Supposed simple innocent from Montesere who was trying to make money for her mother. That's it. Just a regular citizen.

He didn't believe in "supposed". And he was beginning to feel like she kept a great secret from him.

Especially, something connected to Azriel. He knew it from the way her gaze lingered too long on Azriel during the ball two days ago. From the way her jaw clenched when someone so much as mentioned the Night Court. From the way she would ask specifically about Azriel whenever Eris brought up Night. He had kept his eyes on her during the ball. Azriel hadn't recognized her--or pretended not to. But she...she looked like she had seen a ghost.

It set him on edge. He would not be outplayed in his own game. He needed to know who the hell she really was.

And then, the third reason. The most...idiotic of them all.

Calanmai.

It was drawing near.

Though Spring held it's rights sacred, the ancient magic rippled across all courts, and Autumn...Autumn burned. It had always affected him--especially when he was younger--but this year, with her near, with the echo of her lips on his, her hands in his hair...

He had been in agony.

He wanted her. Wanted her too much. And for once in his cursed, calculated life, that want felt dangerous. He didn't trust himself to be near her during Calanmai. If he did...he wouldn't be able to stop.

But all of that came crashing down when his second spy's message reached him during his meeting.

Smoke, Fire. A cursed cabin.

Y/N.

The moment he heard, he didn't think. He shifted. A blaze of fury. He tore through the forest like a storm made flesh, flames licking at his heels as he found her.

Found her broken.

After it was all over, he carried her through fire and shadow, his magic cloaking her in protective warmth. The guards at the palace scrambled out of the way when he roared into the gates. He didn't wait for permission. Didn't stop barking orders. He'd nearly blasted the healer's wing off it's foundations.

If anyone failed to fix her--he'd sworn--he would burn this court to ash.

Even Samira hadn't been spared his wrath.

When Beron demanded answers later, he'd lied smoothly. Said they were attacked by wild magic near the border, said she had been dragged into it by accident. Said he found her just in time.

But Beron's eyes had narrowed. As if he knew there was more.

And maybe there was. Maybe that creature wasn't just wild magic. Maybe it was part of something bigger.

But that would have to wait. Because Eris had at last reached the doors to his mothers guest room.

His chest ached.

He clenched his fists once. Twice.

Then pushed the doors and stepped inside.

Y/N lay back against the plush pillows, her ribs throbbing with every breath. The pain wasn't as blinding as it had been last night, but it was enough to make movement feel like punishment. She had dozed on and off throughout the morning, but now her mind refused to rest.

Her fingers tightened around the card.

It stared back at her with the same ominous glint, the edges strange beneath her touch--too warm, too smooth. Almost...alive. What in the gods-damned realms was this?

Y/N turned it over for the hundredth time, but the back was blank, just that same muted grey. No marks, no symbols. And yet...she felt it. A quiet thrum, like a pulse. Like it was watching her just as much as she watched it.

"What are you?" she muttered, brows furrowing.

Did the card itself hold something more? A message? A warning? Was there magic woven into its ink, its threads? If that fortune teller hadn't turned into a nightmare-inducing creature from the deepest depths of hell, maybe she would have had answers by now.

But no. Now she was left with this burning in her ribs and a head full of cursed questions.

And speaking of curses-

Her thoughts flashed back to him.

Eris Vanserra.

Her lips curled into a bitter smile as she dragged in a sharp breath.

He had told Y/N that she had made a grave mistake. What did he mean? What in the Cauldrons name did he know about that creature?

Even through the haze of pain and her fading vision, she remembered his voice. Cold and furious.

But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. No reaction. No emotion.

She'd gone soft once--once--and look where it got her: nearly burned alive, nearly dead, caught up in all of his mess.

No. Never again.

If Eris thought he could disappear, avoid her, act like nothing happened, he had no idea who he was playing with. There were questions he would answer. On her terms.

Just as she huffed and turned to set the card down, pain flaring in her side, she heard the soft creak of the chamber door.

Her eyes snapped towards the sound, sharp and wary. A young girl stood there--barely out of her teens, her healer's robes too big for her slim shoulders. She bowed quickly, eyes wide and nervous.

"Forgive me princess," she said in a quiet, lilting voice. "Lady Samira sent me to check on you. She said you might be in pain still."

Y/N blinked, her gaze narrowing ever so slightly.

An idea sparked in her mind.

She looked down at the card still resting against her fingers. Then back at the young girl.

Her pain hadn't gone anywhere. Her ribs still ached. She was still exhausted. But this...this was an opportunity.

She straightened up ever so slightly, wincing but doing it anyway.

"Oh" she murmured softly, lips curving into a deceptively innocent smile. "That's very kind of her."

And just like that--her next move began to take shape.

Y/N tilted her head slightly as the young healer stepped further inside, careful to not let the pain show on her face. With practiced ease, she slid the card beneath the folds of the blanket, keeping it hidden by her side. No one could see it. Not yet.

The girl curtsied once more, then came to kneel beside the bed, placing a small satchel of supplies on the bedside table. "I won't be long," she murmured, voice gentle. "Lady Samira insisted you be checked again for internal bruising."

Y/N offered a faint nod, eyes sharp despite the calm expression on her face. She watched every movement the girl made--the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she opened a jar of salve, the way she avoided Y/N's eyes.

Innocent? Nervous? Or something else?

The girl's hands were steady as she peeled back the corner of the blanket, then lifted the edge of the tunic to reach the bandages. Her touch was surprisingly soft. Skilled.

Not a first-year apprentice, then. But still young.

Y/N didn't say a word as the healer carefully undid the wrappings around her ribs, her brows furrowing when she saw the bruising beneath.

"You shouldn't be moving," she said softly, concern seeping into her tone before she caught herself and cleared her throat. "The swelling hasn't gone down yet."

Y/N didn't respond. She simply lay there, silent, watching. Thinking.

The room was quiet, save for the faint sound of linen being unwrapped and the gentle scrape of glass jars.

She waited. Let the girl get comfortable. Let her think that this was a normal visit.

Only when the healer began gently rubbing the cooling balm into her skin did Y/N finally speak--softly, casually, but with intent behind every word.

"What's your name?"

The girl blinked, clearly surprised by the question. "N-Niera, highness."

Y/N gave a slight hum, eyes never leaving her face. "You're not originally from the Autumn Court, are you?"

Niera froze for just half a second--barely noticeable. But Y/N noticed.

"I was born near the border, highness." the healer replied quickly, "Still within Autumn but close to the Riverlands."

A rehearsed answer. Smooth, but not perfect.

Y/N gave no indication of doubt. She shifted slightly, hissing when her side ached. Still, her voice remained soft. Almost idle.

"Have you ever seen a deck of fortune-telling cards, Niera?"

The girl's hands slowed. Her gaze flicked up--just for a moment--to meet Y/N's.

And in that silence, that heartbeat of hesitation, Y/N knew exactly what her next move would be.

The stallion's name was Virell--flame-maned and sharp-eyed, with a temperament nearly as foul as his master's. The beast was bred from a bloodline older than most of the noble houses in Autumn. Unbroken, except by Eris himself.

He'd raised Virell from a colt, trained him to run silent in battle, to lash out with his hooves at the faintest flick of a wrist. The horse knew his moods. Sometimes better than his own damn brothers.

But even as he ran a hand down Virell's flank, tightening the leather straps on the saddle, Eris sighed heavily.

"Enough with trying to distract yourself," he muttered under his breath, jaw tightening.

Because he was doing it again. Wasting time. Wasting energy. The very thing he couldn't afford anymore.

He swung up onto Virell's back in a single fluid motion and kicked the beast into a fast canter that rapidly surged into a gallop. The wind tore through his hair, but did little to cool the fire simmering in his chest.

His thoughts dragged him back to a few hours earlier, just after he had left Y/N"s chambers when Samira entered. He hadn't dared linger longer. Not with the look Y/N had given him when her eyes first fluttered open. Not with the weight of what had happened.

So instead, he'd gone to the one person who might ground him: his mother.

The Lady of Autumn had been waiting for him. Arms crossed. Gaze razor-sharp.

She hadn't even let him close the door behind him before starting.

"You disappeared for an entire day, Eris, and while I would consider your sudden disapearences normal and usual before, I don't anymore." she said coldly

Eris sighed, opting to sit on one of the chairs near the window, "Why? Because you all started to suddenly worry for me?"

"Because you have a wife!" Her voice came out louder this time. "You have a court. You have duties. And now your wife nearly died."

He didn't have the strength--or interest--to argue. Not then. Not when his own guilt had been pressing down on his shoulders like a mountain.

"I was working," he had replied, voice clipped.

"On what?" she demanded. "And don't you dare lie to me."

He didn't lie. Not to her. But he didn't explain either. She didn't need to know. Not yet. Not until it was safe enough to involve her.

Still, he left that conversation with his ears ringing and a dull, bitter taste in his mouth.

He'd meant to go check on Y/N after that. H ereally had. But the memory of her, limp in his arms, blood coating her skin, the sound of her voice laced with venom and pain, he couldn't face it yet.

So he did the second-best thing: He found Samira.

The woman hadn't been thrilled either. But he couldn't care any less, he ordered her to give him constant updates on Y/N's condition.

"I don't take orders from you, Eris," she had snapped after he'd told her to keep watch over Y/N.

He'd stepped closer, leaned in, and in a voice as sharp as a dagger, murmured, "Then take it as a threat instead. You and your family back in Montesere would do well not to anger me."

She scoffed. "Try touching them, and I'll flay you in your sleep."

But then her jaw tightened. "Fine. But only because she is involved."

Now, as Virell thundered through the quiet forest trails beyond the court, Eris growled low under his breath.

He knew it was coming--a fight with Y/N. A massive one. She was going to tear into him wth words sharper than any blade, and this time...she'd have every right.

But so did he.

He gritted his teeth, spurring the horse faster.

"She better start praying," he hissed to the wind. "Because once she is better, she will be answering my damn questions, too."

He couldn't trust anyone with her. Not the guards, not the sentries and not even Samira. She'd still managed to slip away.

Imbeciles.

He'd deal with them later. Every single one of them.

But that fortune teller, that creature....

Gods, Y/N had no idea what she'd walked into. The chaos it would wake.

And now?

Now, she had fucked everything up.

His hands gripped Virell's reins tighter as the trees blurred past him, wind howling in his ears.

He needed to think. To plan.

And above all, to keep her from doing something even worse.

Y/N leaned back against the pillows now, her chest rising and falling at a steadier rhythm. The pain had dulled to something faint and throbbing, almost easy to forget if she didn't move too fast. Which was...suspicious. Because just hours ago, her ribs had felt like they were being stabbed from the inside with every breath. But now, here she was. Sitting up, eating her soup.

And the card--The Unmaker-- it wasn't on her anymore. Her gaze shifted to the empty table beside her bed, where she had once laid it out. Gone.

She exhaled slowly, eyes flicking to the window, before she let her mind drift back to the memory of earlier with the healer.

Niera.

After Y/N had posed her quetsion--carefully, casually, calmly--she'd watched the healer flinch and her eyes narrow with a sudden sharpness that hadn't been present during the silent treating of her wounds. She didn't respond immediately, but that pause had been enough for Y/N.

She knew.

That was when Y/N, very slowly, reached beneath her blanket and drew out the card, holding it up between them--so close Niera could see every etched detail on its surface.

Niera had gasped, her hands went still, and her face lost all color. "Where...did you...?"

"You've seen it before," Y/N had said flatly.

Niera's voice came slower this time, tinged with fear. "Not...this exact one. But I've heard of it. Of a deck like this. Forbidden, some say. Forgotten, others claim. But I never thought I'd-- "

Y/N cut her off. "I need to know what this is. And I can't be seen asking around. Tell me everything you know."

Niera swallowed. "That card is forbidden."

"Why?"

"Because it's cursed. Or...that's what people say. It's not part of any traditional deck. It appears only when it wants to."

"Sounds ridiculous," Y/N said lightly. "Cards don't appear on their own."

Niear hesitated. "They do...when they're linked to something darker. Some say it's not a card. It's a warning. A prophecy."

She leaned in then, the edge of the card still vicible between her fingers. "You can't speak of this, of what you will be doing for me to anyone. You will look into it. Quietly."

A long silence.

Y/N added, softly, "You have people, don't you? A family, maybe? A home somewhere beyond these walls?"

Niera froze.

"Right," Y/N whispered. "I don't want to hurt you. I want your help. But you tell someone about this..." Her voice remained sweet, but something about it turned...iron. "I'll know. And I'll ruin you."

The silence that followed was laced with something cold. But then, unexpectedly, Niera spoke.

"My family is in the North. I'm an orphan, so I only have three younger siblings that I care for. That's why I came to erve in the court--to send money home. But even here, gold is...scarce. I'm treated like dirt beneath their shoes.. So if you're offering gold..."

Y/N leaned back, intrigued. "How much would cover you?"

Niera named a sum that would've made Y/N's former self choke.

But this wasn't her old self anymore.

She simply smirked. "Done."

Niera's eyes widened. "Just like that?"

"Just like that. But in exchange, you're going to help me. First, take this card and find what you can. Second, heal me faster than your pretty rules allow."

To her surprise, Niera nodded--far too quickly. "Deal."

And gods, had she delivered.

Because now, just hours later, Y/N sat upright, breathing normally. Her ribs weren't whole yet, not exactly. But far closer to it than any other healer had managed in this timeframe. Which only proved what she'd always suspected: these palace healers could heal quickly if they wanted to. They just didn't.

She let out a sharp breath of amusement. "Slick bastards."

And the card...the card was out of her hands now, but not out of her reach. The real question was: what would Niera find? And could she be trusted?

Well, it wasn't like there were many options either. After this charade, it will be ten times harder to leave the palace unnoticed. Niera too, has no other choices but to follow Y/N. She made sure of that.

Y/N's fingers curled around the soup bowl in front of her, slowly lifting the spoon to her lips.

She would deal with Eris later. For now, her real focus lay elsewhere.

The Unmaker.

Who would she unmake first?

The crashing of water echoed around him, relentless and loud, yet strangely calming. The waterfall cut through the cliffs like a blade of silver, framed by trees whose autumn-red leaves f;uttered like dying embers in the breeze. Eris sat near the edge, one boot dangling loosely over the slope, the other braced against the damp ground. Virell stood beside him, still and watchful, steam rising faintly from his flanks.

He hadn't meant to ride this far. Not really. But the chaos in his chest hadn't let up for hours, and the sound of water was the only thing that felt remotely close to clarity.

Eris stared into the rushing cascade below, seeing nothing, but feeling...too much.

His mother's voice echoed in his head. "You have a wife now. You can't keep disappearing whenever your instincts tell you to run. You can't live like a blade, Eris. Blades break."

She didn't understand. Couldn't. The truth, the countless pieces he had to move quietly, the risks he carried like chains around his neck. If he didn't keep a step ahead everything--his mother's life, the lives of the few loyal to him, the entire future of Autumn--would crumble.

But the other side of him, the one that had refused to look away from Y/N even when she spat her fury at him, raged just as loud.

He hadn't planned for her. The kiss had been a mistake. A slip. But the second his lips touched hers, it had been like setting himself on fire and realizing far too late that he didn't want to put the flames out.

That was why he had to run--thrown himself into his plan, doubled his efforts to unravel Beron's network of spies, pushed his trusted contact to investigate Y/N's past.

He knew something was off, he always did.

And still...still he had come when she was in danger. Because when he had gotten word of it, when he'd heard what had happened, something inside him had simply snapped. He hadn't even realized how loud he was screaming for the healers to do something, how brutal he had been when they hesitated.

And now...now he sat here, torn between the life he'd built with his teeth and blood, and the woman who had begun to burn holes in his walls with nothing but a look.

He exhaled, dragging his hand through his hair, strands catching on his rings. "Get a grip," he muttered. "You're loosing control."

Virell huffed beside him, shifting slightly. Eris glanced at him, then down again at the water. And suddenly, without warning, the weight in his chest turned sharp.

He had to see her. Right fucking now.

He didn't care how this ended tonight, he couldn't go another moment without seeing her, without answers, without something.

He stood, his decision solidifying with every breath. He climbed onto Virell in one swift, practiced movement.

"Let's go," he said.

"And they thundered off toward the palace, the trees blurring past him like flames in the wind.

Y/N leaned back against the cushions, face paler than it truly was, hands folded lightly over the blanket as she listened to Samira talk. Every once in a while, she offered a soft nod or a strained hum, playing her part well. She had made sure to look tired, to breathe a little more shallowly, to wince just slightly when shifting. The game was necessary--if Samira suspected how quickly her injuries had vanished under Niera's skilled hands, there would be far too many questions.

Samira sat at the edge of the bed, one hand wrapped around a cup of tea and the other resting on the counter, concern etched into every line of her face. "I just can't believe it," she was saying, eyes narrowed. "That creature...whatever it was. If Eris hadn't gotten there-- "

Y/N waved a hand lightly. "Let's not talk about him."

That earned a raised eyebrow from Samira, but before she could say more, the doors burst open with a force that made them both flinch.

The bang echoed through the chamber like a war drum. Samira shot up to her feet, and Y/N's heart skidded to a halt as her gaze darted to the source of the intrusion.

Eris.

He stood in the doorway, chest heaving ever so slightly as if he'd been running. His coat hung open, boots muddied, hair wind-tossed. His eyes--those amber, wildfire eyes--locked on hers with such brutal intensity it burned.

He didn't even acknowledge Samira.

"Get out," he said-- no growled.

The command rang out like a blade.

Samira stepped in front of Y/N, her voice cold. "Excuse me?"

"I said get the hell out of here," Eris snapped, taking a thunderous step forward. "Now."

Y/N blinked, stunned, before her gaze flicked to Samira. The poor woman looked torn between loyalty and fury.

"It's okay," Y/N said softly, placing a hand over Samira's. "I'm alright. Just...go."

Samira stared at her for a long second before muttering a sharp curse under her breath. She turned toward the door but not before shooting Eris a glare hot enough to incinerate his boots. Then, just as she was about to step out, she paused--glancing over her shoulder at Y/N with an unreadable expression.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And Y/N was left alone in the room with her storm of a husband.

The silence in the room thickened after Samira left. Y/N sat motionless, the bedsheets tangled around her legs as she stared at the closed door. Her ribs barely ached now, thanks to Niera's accelerated healing, but she stayed hunched and breathing shallow--still playing the role of the injured wife for appearances.

Eris didn't waste a second.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he snapped. "Leaving the palace like that--wandering the streets alone-- do you even know this court? Its streets? Its people? You don't know what's out there. You don't know who to trust. This place is nothing like your sunny, colorful Montesere. If you don't know how to survive here, it will eat you up alive, Y/N. Alive!"

Y/N didn't respond.

He paced at the end of the bed, hands running through his hair. "And the fortune teller? Do you even realize what you've done? You think this is some sort of game? You act like you own the entire court-- "

Still, she didn't reply.

He turned sharply. "Y/N."

Nothing.

"Y/N."

Her gaze remained fixed ahead, unreadable.

He stepped closer. "What the hell is your problem? You are now a princess, you are safe, you get drowned in riches, wear the absolute latest fashion, live in luxury and glory, are married to the future high lord, your mother is getting the best of the best treatments and yet...and yet you still have a fucking problem."

Finally, she turned to him. Her voice was ice.

"I don't talk to you unless absoluetly necessary. Which is in public."

He stared at her like she'd slapped him. "So that's it now?"

No reply.

"Oh, come on." He gave a bitter laugh. "Is this because of the kiss? You're angry I left?"

Silence. The room hummed with tension.

And then...he made the mistake of stepping closer--leaning down.

In a flash, Y/N was on her feet.

"Shut up," she growled. "You don't get to talk. You disappeared after the kiss! You left me! And now you're mad at me?!"

Eris had genuine shock on his face. "How did you heal so fast-- "

"No. You don't get to ask that." She jabbed a finger at him, "You disappear whenever you like. You have secrets you won't share. But when I do something for myself, I'm reckless?"

His eyes narrowed. "Well, look at your condition right now."

"What am I supposed to do?" she shouted back. "Rot in these damned walls while my so called husband vanishes for entire days? You expect me to trust you--follow your lead--when you give me nothing?"

"I never said you had to trust me," he snapped.

She scoffed. "Of course not. Trust means you have to tell me your plan. And gods forbid I know the plan, right? Because I'm just your pawn in all this shit!"

"You are not a pawn," he growled.

She laughed bitterly. "I understand we're not supposed to love each other. I get it. And I don't love you. But at the very least, I deserve some respect! For cauldrons sake, you kissed me Eris. I didn't run from it. You did."

"You think I had a choice?"

"Where were you?" she demanded. "Why did you only show up when I was about to die? You think your little hero act will make me believe in your bullshit Eris? When I was rotting in this venom-filled court, when I was taken to the fortune teller, when I was in the streets alone because my husband couldn't crae enough to show me his court, where the hell were you?"

Y/N cut him off before he even got a chance to reply. "Oh, that's right, you were fuck knows where! My guess is, with one of your mistresses, fucking around and not giving two shits about me!"

"That's not fucking true, and you know that! Call me whatever you want but not a cheater, never that. Only the lowest of low's do that and I'm never fucking low. I had things to take care of." Eris' voice kept rising with each word as his eyes narrowed down on her.

She sneered. "Mistresses?"

He glared. "You have no idea what I've been dealing with."

"And you don't care what I've been going through. You want to control me-- but not protect me. You want obedience, not trust."

"I came for you the second I heard. I saved you-- "

"And vanished again! You think that makes you a hero?"

His voice rose. "Do you even understand the danger we're in? Do you know what I'm risking? What I'm doing behind the scenes?"

"What's the point if you won't let me in?"

"Because this isn't love. This is a fake marriage, remember?"

"Exactly!" she shouted. "I can't stand you!"

The words sliced through the air.

And just like that, silence fell.

She slowly sank onto the bed, burying her face in her hands, and muttered. "It was a mistake. All of it. Coming here. Agreeing to your bullshit plan. Leaving Montesere."

Eris stood still.

"I shouldn't have ever met you," she whispered.

Something cracked in him.

He dropped onto the bed beside her. "I know, but for some reason, I wouldn't change it."

She stared blankly at the wall. "All I ever wanted was to protect my mother. To cure her. And now I'm stuck in a palace with a male who doesn't give a damn if I live or die. You know, if this plan gets uncovered, if someone finds out the truth, I am dead."

His voice shifted--lower, rougher. "Nothing will happen to you."

She turned her head to him. "You don't know that."

"I do. Because I won't let it."

She snorted. "Right. like you've 'protected' me before?"

Eris clenched his fists. "The attackers in Tideholt--the ones who ambushed us on our way here--I found them. I made sure they suffered."

Her head snapped towards him.

"What?"

"I didn't forget. I can't seem to forget anything that involves you these days."

A beat.

Her heart twisted--but her face remained cold.

"Too little, too late," she said, voice brittle. "You're always too late."

His mouth opened. But nothing came out.

"I can't do this anymore," she whispered. "I don't want your games. I don't want your secrets."

"And what do you want, Y/N?" he growled. "A perfect courtship? Roses? Love letters? You think I can afford to give you that?"

"I think you can afford honesty," she snapped. "But you don't even have that."

"Then leave," he hissed. "Go back to Montesere."

She glared at him. "Maybe I will."

They stood.

Two stroms, ready to collide.

"I hate you," she spat.

"I hate you more."

And with that, Eris turned and stormed from the room, slamming the door so hard it rattled the windows.

Y/N sank back onto the bed, he chest heaving, her heart screaming--and yet...the room felt even colder without him in it.

An hour later, she tugged the heavy velvet curtains shut with a little more force than necessary, the rings clinking violently against the rod. The entire room was cloaked in a soft darkness now, with only the warm flicker of the bedside candle to keep the shadows at bay.

She didn't care anymore.

Not about her ribs. Not about whether anyone noticed she was much better, stronger than she should've been after just a few hours. Let them question it. Let them gossip. Let them talk.

Her mind was too clouded with rage.

Rage...and something else she didn't want to name.

She yanked off the silk robe draped around her shoulders and tossed it onto the chair with a bitter sigh, muttering under her breath. "Arrogant, self-righteous bastard." She pulled back the covers and climbed into bed, teeth clenched. Her hands trembled, but not from fear.

From everything else.

She turned her face into the pillow and growled. "I shouldn't have ever met you," she whispered into the darkness.

And then--

The door slammed open again.

She sat up immediately, throwing the covers off. "What now?" she snapped, already ready for a fight.

But her words died in her throat.

Eris stood in the doorway. Again.

This time, dressed in only a loose, black shirt and matching pants--no armour, no boots, no weapon. Just him. His hair tousled, cheecks flushed and his arms--

Pillows.

A thick, dark blanket.

He didn't say a word as he closed the door behind him with a definitive click. Walked right past her. Past the ruined tray on the table. Straight toward the narrow couch by the window.

She blinked. "What...are you doing?"

No answer.

He set the blanket down and began fluffing one of the pillows.

"Eris."

Still nothing.

Fury erupted again in her chest. She slipped out of bed, marched over, and shoved his back with the palm of her hand--hard.

He didn't flinch, but he did pause. And finally, turned.

"What the hell are you doing?" she hissed. "You don't just walk in here--again--with a damn blanket and-- "

"I'm here to sleep," he said simply. "Obviously."

"In here?"

He adjusted the pillow again, choosing not to answer her question.

"You could've slept in one of your a hundred other rooms. Why the hell here?"

He turned to face her fully now. And for a heartbeat, everything stilled.

His eyes looked right into hers. And something in them...something silent but terrifyingly certain reached her in ways words never could.

His voice was soft, but absolute. "Because you're here."

Y/N's breath hitched.

"And I'm not going anywhere," he added. "So go to sleep."

She opened her mouth, ready to saya hundred things--none of which made it past her lips.

Eris turned away, settled on the couch, pulling the blanket up to his chest. He didn't look at her this time, just stared at the ceiling with that unreadable look on his face.

"We'll talk about your magical sudden healing later," he said blandly, voice half-lidded with exhaustion. "Don't think I forgot."

She stared at him. This infuriating, maddening, arrogant male. Who had insulted her, hurt her, kissed her--and now was camping on her couch like it was the most normal thing in thw world.

With a long, exhausted sigh, she turned back to the bed and muttered curses under her breath.

"Goodnight, princess."

"Go fuck yourself, Eris."

Eris chuckled.

She climbed under the sheets, turned away from him.

And in the silence, just before she drifted off, she whispered to herself:

"What the hell are we doing?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist: @lamimamiii @batboyslutt @k-godling @littowl @jaybbygrl @kissesfromnovalie @talesofadragon @tele86 @annamariereads16 @circe143 @yukimaniac @babypeapoddd @darkbloodsly @hauntedstudentobservationus @i-know-i-can @12358 @holb32 @herondale-lightworm @byysandra @sourapplex

[moonlitstoriess]

Currently working on binding lies part 9, should be out soon. I’ve got some juicy stuff coming your way😉😏

[moonlitstoriess]

Touch Me and Bleed was sooo good ❤️

Thank youu, so happy to know that❤️

[moonlitstoriess]

Heyy!! Could I request a Azriel x witch reader. Like Blackbeak clan (I’m reading the TOG series & loving Manon & the 13 rn) & maybe she’s like another spy or one of Amren’s friends from another world and he doesn’t trust her at first but she ends up helping the IC with koschei or something n he finds himself more interested in her

Touch Me and Bleed- Azriel x fem!witch reader (oneshot)

Summary: A Blackbeak witch, loyal to a distant queen and bound by blood and war, crosses into Prythian to hunt a death god. Azriel doesn’t trust her—but when shadows meet iron, loyalty and hatred blur into something far more dangerous.

A/N: This was a very exciting thing to write!! Thank you so much anon for requesting such an interesting idea. I hope you enjoy it🫶

Warnings: violence, blood, angst, some sprinkle of fluff? open ending (happy-ish?)

See masterlist

The rift pulsed against the quiet stone at the edge of Velaris, its shifting light painting faces with harsh, unnatural shadows. The Inner Circle stood close, watching.

Azriel arrived last, moving like a shadow melting into the crowd. His wings folded behind him, but the restless stir beneath his skin told a different story--unease, suspicion, something like anger.

Koschei had been creating more headaches for everyone in the past few weeks--his dark influence seeping into the mortal realms, twisting the dead into unholy servants and corrupting the very fabric of the Shadowlands. Villages near the border reported disappearances, strange creatures prowling at night, and whispers of a power growing beyond control. The Inner Circle knew time was running out. If Koschei wasn’t stopped soon, the entire realm would drown in his rising tide of death and chaos.

That is exactly why Amren had proposed to call in one of her "otherworldly strange" friends (Cassian's words). Of course, Rhysand and Feyre wouldn't allow anyone in without a proper briefing about them. Amren had insisted that there is no one better suited for this than her apparent friend, Y/N.

And Amren didn't shy away from giving all the essential informations about her to them.

Y/N Blackbeak. An Ironteeth witch--Azriel still couldn't understand how does one have sharp iron teeth and claws--part of the Blackbeak coven. Or was. Apparently, there used to be three different covens which were later on all united together with the Crochans under one queen. Manon Blackbeak. This great shift had happened during a huge war that they were all in.

Y/N is very loyal to her "sisters" and even more so to her queen. That part Azriel understood. Rhysand held his loyalty the same way: earned in blood, kept through sacrifice. But this witch didn’t come from their courts, their histories. She belonged to a different world entirely.

She was known for being one of the most ruthless among them. A hunter. A killer. Not gifted with elegant magic, but with precision, instinct, and a taste for blood. Her body was a weapon--iron teeth, iron nails, every strike calculated. Countless deaths were tied to her name, most of them earned in silence.

She had tracked monsters across war-torn mountains in her world. Killed gods, if the stories were true. But what made her dangerous now wasn’t myth--it was knowledge.

She had seen Koschei before. Fought things he made. Abominations born of rot and death-magic. And she’d survived. More than that--she remembered. She knew how he moved, how he hid pieces of himself. She knew the scent of his work. The feel of it in the earth, in the bodies he left behind.

“She doesn’t use shadows or spells,” Amren had told them. “She doesn’t need to. She finds things that don’t want to be found. And when she does, she ends them.”

After the death of "The Thirteen", she took the place of Asterin Blackbeak as the new second-in-command to queen Manon. Her "Wyvern" (whatever creature that is, Azriel still hasn't understood that part either) is the largest and most ruthless-just like her apparently.

"And what exactly happens when she walks in here? Do we just you know- greet her like a normal guest or-"

"Just because she is from another world and a witch, doesn't mean that she is an abnormal creature, Cassian." Amren hissed back, cutting off Cassians curiosity.

Azriel's head snapped back up, coming back to reality, his shadows whispering faintly at the edge of his senses like they’d felt something shift in the air. He narrowed his eyes toward the glowing rift, watching the edges throb and flicker--unsettled, like the veil between worlds was starting to tear.

"In any case, I believe she is very unique. I mean I know that your friends have all been quite unique but with the way you described this specific friend has me very interested. I mean, an ironteeth witch? drinks men's blood? wish I could do that sometimes. And I'm sure I'm not the only one excited, right Nesta?" Mor winked at the female beside her who only gave a small nod.

“She’s close,” Amren muttered, fingers moving in sharp, precise patterns as she worked the ancient sigils surrounding the portal. They pulsed faintly beneath her hand, reacting to her touch like blood answering a heartbeat. “The rift is thinning.”

“Great,” Cassian said, rolling his shoulders. “Because nothing says ‘safe and sane’ like summoning a death-witch with a wyvern from another dimension into Velaris.”

Feyre arched a brow. “You’re the one who wanted to spar with her, remember?”

Cassian threw her a grin. “I said I might spar with her. If she doesn’t bite.”

“She probably will,” Mor added brightly, brushing a curl over her shoulder. “Amren made her sound like a feral bat crossed with a blade.”

Amren didn’t look up. “She’s more refined than that.”

“Sure,” Rhysand drawled, his tone easy but his stance alert, shadows curled near his boots. “Refined in the way a storm is refined. Or a plague.”

“She’s not here to impress any of you,” Amren snapped, her eyes flicking briefly to Rhys. “She’s here because Koschei is getting smarter. Bolder. And she’s one of the only people who’s fought the things he leaves behind and walked away.”

Azriel said nothing, but his jaw tightened. That was the part that stuck with him—the walking away. He’d seen what Koschei’s creations did to people. The kind of twisted, broken things they left behind. You didn’t just walk away from that unless you were something worse.

Nesta finally spoke, quiet but firm. “And what happens if she’s not what you think she is?”

Amren didn’t flinch. “Then you kill her.”

A long silence settled after that.

Mor blinked. “Wow. Casual.”

Feyre stepped forward slightly. “Let’s assume she’s not a threat.”

“We don’t assume,” Azriel said, voice low. “We watch.”

Rhys nodded once in agreement. “The moment she steps through, we gauge her. Carefully. No grand welcomes.”

“She won’t expect one,” Amren said, almost amused. “She hates this kind of thing. Told me once that ‘warm greetings are for weak hearts.’”

Cassian whistled. “What a ray of sunshine.”

Azriel tuned them out after that. The voices blurred at the edges as his attention zeroed back in on the portal. It was changing now--deepening, folding in on itself, the color shifting from silver to blood-red, then back again. Whatever lay on the other side was moving closer.

His shadows recoiled. Not from fear--no, they didn’t fear. But they recognized what was coming through. A presence that wasn’t born of this realm. A presence used to war and silence and blood.

Azriel’s hand hovered near the hilt of his dagger.

And then--

The rift pulsed once, hard.

The air thinned.

The ground vibrated.

And something stepped through.

The pulse echoed like a drumbeat in Azriel’s bones.

The portal split open with a hiss--no thunder, no blaze of magic. Just a tearing sound, like skin peeling from flesh. The air went sharp with the scent of iron.

And then she stepped through.

Boots first. Blood-crusted, weather-worn. A slow, deliberate step. Then another.

Her leathers were torn at the seams in places, dark with dried blood and soot. Her iron nails caught the lamplight--glinting like small, wicked blades. Her eyes were pale gold, colder than ice, older than winter, and her mouth--Gods, those teeth--flashed in a quiet sneer as she looked them all over.

Behind her, the creature emerged.

Azriel had seen many beasts in his life. He’d fought through battlefields soaked in gore. But the thing that slithered half-formed from the fading rift, a massive wyvern, its wings frayed at the edges, claws curled into the stone, was not a beast. It was a weapon. A dying one, perhaps, flickering and insubstantial in this realm, but no less terrifying.

It let out a low, guttural noise--like a growl, like grief--and folded its wings as it took position at her back.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Then Y/N Blackbeak tilted her head, eyeing the group like she was picking which one she’d kill first if she had to.

Her voice, when it came, was rough like gravel. “This is Velaris?”

Cassian blinked. “I was expecting more screaming.”

“I’m disappointed too,” she said flatly.

Mor let out a breath that was half laugh, half disbelief. “Charming.”

Rhysand stepped forward, calm but cautious. “You must be Y/N.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Depends. Who’s asking?”

Rhys inclined his head. “High Lord of the Night Court.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked to Feyre, then to Amren. The only one she seemed to acknowledge was Amren, who gave her the faintest nod.

Azriel watched her every movement. The way she stood--not like a diplomat, not like a soldier. Like a predator. Relaxed but alert. Ready to rip out a throat if needed.

He didn’t trust her. Not even a little.

But damn if he didn’t believe the stories.

“So,” she said after a beat, iron nails glinting as she flexed her fingers. “Which one of you is going to point me to Koschei’s rot?”

Azriel’s voice was out before he thought to stop it. Cold. Controlled.

“That depends. Are you here to help… or hunt?”

Y/N turned to face him fully for the first time.

And smiled.

There was no warmth in it. Only teeth.

“Why not both?”

Rhysand’s expression didn’t shift, but Feyre stepped closer, the edge in her voice barely masked.

“And what exactly do you want in return for this help?”

Y/N’s head tilted slightly, as if she were listening for something only she could hear. Her wyvern gave a low growl in response--its translucent shape pulsing faintly behind her like it barely existed in this realm at all.

“I want nothing,” Y/N said, voice flat. “No gold. No favor. No alliance.”

Feyre narrowed her eyes. “Then why are you here?”

“I owe a debt,” she replied, finally looking away from Rhysand to glance at Amren. “To her. She saved my life once. This repays it.”

A beat passed.

Cassian’s brow shot up. “Wait--what?” He looked between them. “When the hell did that happen?”

Amren didn’t even glance his way. She waved a small, dismissive hand like swatting a fly. “None of your business, brute.”

The silence that followed was thick, uncomfortable. Even Mor’s smile had vanished.

Azriel’s shadows stirred at his shoulders, quiet but tense. He didn’t take his eyes off Y/N, not because he thought she would strike, but because he could tell she could. Her posture hadn’t changed, but her presence filled the entire courtyard like a second sky pressing down on them.

Nesta, beside him, said nothing either. But when he glanced her way-

It startled him.

Not fear in her eyes. Not suspicion.

Admiration.

A subtle tilt to her chin. A slight parting of her lips. The faintest crease in her brow like something about the witch had unraveled a knot she hadn’t realized she carried.

Azriel had never seen Nesta look at anyone like that- not even Feyre. Not even Cassian.

It pulled at something in his chest, something he refused to name.

Then Amren stepped forward.

“As I told you, Rhys,” she said, casually brushing nonexistent dust off her tunic, “I would never bring someone here I didn’t trust.”

She gave the High Lord a pointed look.

“Well- actually, she only trusts me,” Amren added with a sharp smile. “And I trust her. Which should be enough.”

Rhysand exhaled slowly. He gave her a long, unreadable look. Then a single nod. Barely perceptible, but permission all the same.

That was when Feyre cleared her throat, wrapping her arms around herself like the temperature had dropped a few degrees. “Right,” she said, voice brisk, steady. “Let’s go in, shall we?”

Y/N said nothing. She didn’t smile. Didn’t thank them.

She just turned toward the House.

And the wyvern followed.

The doors to the House of Wind shut behind them with a soft thud, the sound echoing through the wide, vaulted chamber. It was quiet in a way only high places could be: thick with power, history, and something more fragile beneath.

Y/N walked with the same quiet dominance she’d arrived with. She didn’t gawk at the vaulted ceilings or the glowing lights that flickered overhead. She didn’t ask questions or offer comments. Her wyvern trailed a few steps behind, its form wavering, too large for the space and too ghostly to care.

Rhysand led the way, flanked by Feyre. Neither said a word as they entered the informal war room, but every step radiated the tension of two rulers trying not to snap the moment a guest said the wrong thing.

Cassian leaned against the long table in the center, trying too hard to look casual. Mor took her usual seat, legs crossed, eyes glittering with a mix of curiosity and calculation. Nesta moved silently to a shadowed corner, where she could observe everything without being in the middle of it.

Azriel didn’t sit. He remained standing, hands behind his back, shadows curling faintly around his boots. Watching.

Y/N didn’t sit either.

She stood at the far end of the room, her back straight, eyes scanning the windows like she was mapping exit routes.

Feyre spoke first. “Amren says you’ve seen Koschei’s work. What exactly did you encounter?”

Y/N’s response came without hesitation. “Plague-spirits. Hollowed corpses. Men turned inside out, walking on bones they didn’t grow with. Magic that smells like rot and sounds like begging.”

Mor blinked. “Sounds delightful.”

Y/N ignored her. “It was worse near rivers. He favors places that border things—life and death, land and water, flesh and memory. Thresholds.”

“That lines up with what we’ve seen,” Rhys said, glancing at Feyre, then back at Y/N. “And you’re sure what you saw is the same as what’s happening here?”

“I know his scent,” Y/N said simply. “You don’t forget that kind of rot.”

The room went quiet again.

“Why didn’t you kill him in your world?” Azriel asked, voice low.

She turned her head toward him. Not hostile. Not cold. Just… empty. Like the question was too simple for the weight it carried.

“Because he left before I could. Slipped through one of the last cracks between our worlds. I followed him.” A pause. “Eventually.”

“So this is a hunt,” Rhysand said, folding his arms.

Y/N didn’t answer. Just glanced at Amren.

Amren, lounging in her chair like none of this mattered in the slightest, rolled her eyes. “She’s not here for revenge or power plays, Rhys. I already told you.”

“Yes,” Rhys said quietly, “but it’s different hearing it from her.”

Y/N’s lip curled. “I am not your subject. I do not kneel to your throne.”

Feyre bristled, but Rhysand just nodded once. “Good. Then we’ll speak plainly.”

Azriel watched the exchange unfold in silence, but every word pressed at him like a blade against skin. He didn’t like her tone. Didn’t like her indifference. But something about it, the calm detachment, the bluntness, it rang true. She wasn’t playing them. If anything, she was already halfway out the door.

Nesta leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees, eyes still fixed on Y/N. “You don’t care what happens to this world.”

“No,” Y/N said. “But I care what happens to Amren. And if she’s staying in this realm, then it’s in my interest to make sure it doesn’t turn into Koschei’s personal graveyard.”

Cassian let out a soft breath. “She saved your life?”

Y/N’s head tilted slightly. “She pulled me out of a god’s mouth. You don’t forget that.”

Cassian blinked. “Holy- wait, an actual god’s-”

“None of your business,” Amren said, sharp as a blade. Her expression didn’t waver. “Let it go.”

Silence again.

Azriel’s gaze drifted--not to the witch, but to Nesta.

There was that same look in her eyes. Admiration, yes--but also a flicker of something like recognition. Like she’d found something of herself reflected in the Ironteeth woman standing so calmly across the room.

Nesta didn’t mask it. Her jaw was tight, but her eyes were clear. Like she'd been waiting for someone to say the things Y/N had just said and mean them.

It unsettled him.

Not because he didn’t understand it.

Because he did.

Then Amren rose, smoothing down her tunic with a quick flick of her hand. “As I said, Rhysand,” she said, her voice taking on that ageless, steel-edged quality that still made the room hold its breath, “I wouldn’t bring someone into this court if I didn’t trust her.”

She turned to face him fully. “Well- she doesn’t trust any of you. Only me. But the sentiment stands.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Feyre cleared her throat, glancing at Rhys before offering the smallest of smiles. “Right. Well then… let’s go in, shall we?”

That was when Y/N finally stepped forward, calm and deliberate. She didn’t wait to be offered a seat- just took one, dragging the chair slightly apart from the others as if claiming neutral ground. From her small, worn satchel, she pulled out a thickly folded map. She spread it across the table in one sharp motion, weighing the corners down with nothing but her iron-cool presence.

It was a detailed map of Prythian, far more detailed than any Azriel had expected. But what caught everyone's eye weren’t the borders or mountains- they were the markings. Circles in black ink. Crossed-out towns. Arrows pointing to rivers, forests, patches of nothingness. Strange notations in a language none of them recognized.

"Amren was kind enough to have this sent to Erilea, my world, a few days prior so that I could get a good analysis and idea of what world I'm dealing with. I prefer to know what kind of battlefield I’m stepping onto before I start bleeding.”

Cassian let out a soft grunt that might’ve been impressed. Feyre leaned forward, brows drawn tight.

But before anyone could speak, Y/N turned her head and looked directly at Azriel--unflinching, sharp-eyed. Then, without a word, she raised both hands, slow and deliberate. The iron claws that had glinted moments before shimmered once, then retracted beneath her skin, leaving behind plain, clean nails.

She held his gaze as her jaw shifted with a soft click. When she parted her lips again, the iron teeth were gone, no fangs, no metal gleam. Just the unnerving stillness of a predator who had momentarily sheathed her weapons.

A show of restraint. Or a warning.

Azriel wasn’t sure which.

But it silenced the edge in him just a little. Not harmless. Never that. But perhaps… something else. Something controlled. His shadows recoiled and settled, just barely.

Then her voice cut through the quiet.

“I’m not staying long,” Y/N said. “Manon expects me to be back within forty-eight hours by our time. That translates to approximately three days here, give or take the way time bends between realms. Though I would say Erilea and Prythian are quite close. Hence the short time difference."

“You’re really just here to leave again?” Feyre asked, a mix of surprise and wariness.

“I’m not a diplomat. I don’t do tea and chatter. I was sent to deal with Koschei, nothing more.”

Azriel hated it, how direct she was. Hated how something in him respected it, too. No games. No fawning. Just teeth and strategy.

Rhysand finally spoke, his voice low. “And what have you learned about his movements so far?”

Y/N leaned over the map, tapping one of the circles in the north. “Koschei doesn’t spread like war. He spreads like sickness. Slow. Precise. Rotting the foundation of whatever he touches until it crumbles from within.”

She moved her finger down the map. “He doesn’t take cities. He takes people. A village falls quiet, and by the time you notice it’s gone, the surrounding land is already turning.”

She pointed to a forest near the border. “This was your first disappearance, yes? And this-” she tapped an area far west, “is where your scouts found bones that didn’t match any native species.”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed. How the hell did she know that?

Cassian stepped forward now, tone sharpening. “So. What’s the plan?”

Y/N straightened. “The plan is to split into three teams. Exactly two per group. Koschei moves through mirrors-reflections, still water, glass--and he splits his attention. We need to do the same. Three fronts, three targets, three strikes.”

She looked around the room. “I’m leaving it to you to decide who goes with whom. I’m unfamiliar with your strengths, your tempers, and your… alliances.” Her eyes flicked to Mor, then Azriel, then Nesta.

“I assume your rulers,” she added, glancing at Feyre and Rhys, “will remain here to maintain court stability.”

Feyre opened her mouth to protest, but Rhys lifted a hand. “She’s right.”

Feyre scowled but said nothing more.

Y/N rolled the map to a smaller region now, tapping three points in a triangle. “These are the weak spots. I believe he’s testing them—probes, leaks, trying to open small rifts. We need to hit all three before he gets a foothold.”

“The groups will need a balance of flight, magic, and brute strength,” she continued. “One to track. One to strike. One to watch the shadows.”

Azriel felt her eyes flick briefly to him at the last one, but she didn’t linger.

Nesta, still watching from the edge of the room, finally spoke. “He’s drawing people in with promises, isn’t he? Not just killing--corrupting. Offering them something they want.”

Y/N’s expression shifted for the first time. Almost… approving.

“Exactly,” she said, tapping once on the table. “That’s how he breaks them. Promises them their lost lovers, their children, their second chances.”

She turned her head and pointed across the table. “Honestly, I’m starting to really like her.”

Nesta didn’t respond. But her mouth twitched.

And Azriel—

Well. He’d never admit it aloud. But he didn’t hate the sound of that either.

Then Mor clapped her hands together, breaking the moment. “Right, then. Who goes with whom?”

Cassian clapped his hands as well, eyes flicking around the room like he already knew how this would go. “Alright, we’ll need to be quick about this. I say we move at first light tomorrow.”

Amren snorted. “First light. Of course.”

Cassian leaned in, arms crossed over the table. “I’ll go with Nesta.” His tone left no room for argument. Nesta didn’t flinch. Didn’t smirk or roll her eyes. She only nodded, sharp and sure.

“Mor and I will take the eastern flank,” Amren said, like the matter had been settled long before anyone else had opened their mouths. Mor raised a brow but didn’t argue. She merely winked and added, “You’re lucky I like danger.”

That left Azriel.

And her.

Y/N was still standing beside the table, gaze down on the map, not watching the others as much as sensing them. When her head lifted, her eyes met Azriel’s again--dark, quiet, measuring.

Rhys glanced at them both, something unreadable in his face. “That leaves Azriel and Y/N.”

Of course it does, Azriel thought.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

Cassian’s brow twitched. “You two gonna be alright playing nice together?”

Y/N turned slightly, her arms folding across her chest. “I don’t need nice. I need effective.”

Azriel’s voice came quiet, colder than he meant. “Then we’ll get along just fine.”

He saw it, barely, but it was there. A flicker of amusement behind her gaze. As if something about his retort pleased her.

She looked back down to the map. “Our target is here,” she said, pointing to the most remote of the three points: deep forest bordering one of the lesser-traveled mountain ranges.

Azriel knew it well. Dark, damp, prone to heavy fog and worse things hiding in it.

Perfect.

She tapped the ink with a clawless finger. “This was the first place I smelled his work. It’s old, but still warm. We’ll go there first.”

“And if he’s already moved?” Feyre asked.

“Then we follow the rot.” Her words were flat. Practical.

There was silence for a beat too long. Then Rhys nodded once. “We move at dawn. You all have until then to prepare.”

The meeting broke apart slowly. Chairs scraping, boots scuffing against stone. Azriel lingered at the edge, eyes still on the map. He could feel her beside him-- still, quiet, like the eye of a storm waiting to shift.

Nesta passed him as she left, but she paused only long enough to glance once back at Y/N.

Admiration. Clear and open. Azriel had seen Nesta sneer, seen her freeze people out with a look, but this was the first time he’d seen her… intrigued. Her mouth pulled into something faint. Respect, maybe.

And for some godsdamned reason, that unsettled him more than anything else.

Y/N spoke softly, without turning. “You don’t trust me.”

Azriel didn’t respond. Not right away. His shadows flickered, tense and restless.

“I don’t need you to,” she added, “but if we’re walking into something that’s already watching, I’d prefer we don’t bite at each other’s heels.”

He exhaled through his nose. “I don’t trust easily.”

“Neither do I.” She finally looked at him again. “But I’ll watch your back, Shadowsinger. You don’t have to like it, but it’s true.”

Azriel studied her, his jaw tight. Everything about her was sharp. Edged. But something about her steadiness, her refusal to flinch or flatter, scraped against the part of him that recognized survival.

Maybe not trust.

But understanding.

“I’ll see you at dawn,” he said finally, and walked away.

Behind him, he thought he heard her say, quiet as a whisper, “Try not to be late.”

Velaris didn’t seem quite as bad as she’d expected.

When Amren had mentioned it was part of the Night Court, Y/N had pictured something darker. Bleaker. A city crawling with shadows and dripping with pompous fae magic. But now, as the sun began to bleed gold into the sky and the breeze carried the scent of sea salt and distant pine, she found herself… tolerating it.

Maybe even liking it. A little.

She stood on the narrow stone balcony just outside the guest chambers they’d given her, already dressed for the road, boots laced tight, leathers snug. She hadn’t slept, not that she needed to. Her arms were folded as she leaned against the railing, fingers tapping absently with normal, unarmed nails. Below, Velaris still slumbered, lanterns casting soft glows across misted rooftops, the city slow to wake.

Above, circling sluggishly against the pale sky, her wyvern drifted in lazy, slow arcs.

“Firkhan,” she murmured.

He didn’t respond, not with words. He never had. But his shadow passed overhead, his translucent wings shimmering like heat waves, a ghost of the beast he’d once been. In this world, he was weaker—his body flickering at the edges like smoke caught in wind. The magic here resisted him. Or maybe he simply didn't belong.

None of us do, she thought.

Firkhan let out a low, rumbling screech that had no business sounding so mournful.

Y/N exhaled through her nose, eyes scanning the horizon.

It had been a long time since she’d stood still like this.

The war back in Erilea had carved her open and left iron in the cracks. She could still hear the shrieks of the Valg, the clash of blades against darkened armor, the hiss of Maeve’s shadows as they crumbled under fire. She remembered standing beside her sisters—her real sisters—when the skies rained blood. She remembered the silence after.

The silence that came when the Thirteen fell.

She hadn't asked for Asterin’s place. She hadn’t even wanted it. But Manon had given it to her anyway. Just looked her in the eye one night after the dust settled and said, “It’s yours now.”

And that had been that.

Manon never needed to explain herself. Y/N had only bowed once and borne the weight ever since. And she’d worn it like armor.

It was Amren who had broken that stillness.

A letter. Sealed in blood and old magic, slipped through the rift by means Y/N hadn’t asked about. The words had been few. No begging. No threats. Just a reminder:

"You owe me."

She did. Amren had pulled her from the mouth of a god...literally. Not during the war, but long before it, in the ruins of a temple swallowed by something old and hungry. Not out of kindness, but out of something older. Something sharp and mutual. They’d looked at each other across a pool of blood and ancient bones and understood one another without speaking a word.

They were both creatures carved from hard places, bound more by debt than affection. But it had been enough. Still was.

So when the next message came—a name she recognized, a darkness she thought she’d buried—she didn’t hesitate.

Koschei.

Of all the cursed gods and rotting immortals, he was the one that lingered. The one she hadn’t finished.

Manon hadn’t argued when she asked to go. Just stared at her for a long time before saying, “Two days. Then you return.”

Two days, Y/N repeated silently.

Firkhan screeched again, drawing her attention skyward.

And then—

A voice behind her. Rough, quiet, unmistakable:

“You’re up early.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t turn immediately. She didn’t need to. That voice was etched into her mind now--low and razor-edged, like something dragged over stone. Y/N slowly turned her head, casting a sideways glance to where he stood just outside the balcony doors.

Azriel.

The infamous spymaster of the Night Court. Cloaked in shadow even when he wasn’t calling on them, quiet as death, and about as warm. She’d done her research, of course. Amren hadn’t sent her in blind, Y/N had asked for details. Files. Observations. Whatever the Night Court had been willing to share, she’d devoured it.

And Azriel… was the one she’d paid the most attention to.

Not because she feared him, but because she understood him.

He moved like someone who had once been caged. Who still wore the scent of blood under his leathers, even if the rest of them had grown soft on peace and pretty skies.

She met his eyes now, unbothered. “We’re supposed to be out in twenty minutes. I assumed punctuality was something your court still valued.”

His lip twitched, maybe irritation, maybe amusement. “It is. I wasn’t expecting you to be ready before sunrise.”

She turned her head back toward the view. “I didn’t sleep.”

He stepped forward, coming to stand beside her. A brief moment of silence passed as they both watched the wyvern circling above.

“That’s… your wyvern?” Azriel asked eventually, nodding toward the faint shimmer in the sky.

“Firkhan,” she said simply.

He waited, clearly expecting more.

“He’s not meant for this world,” she added after a beat. “Too much fae magic in the air. Too much softness. It's like trying to keep a blade sharp in a pool of silk.”

Azriel’s brow ticked up at that, faint amusement flickering in his gaze. “We don’t have creatures like him in this realm.”

“I know,” she said. “Closest you’ve got are the Illyrians and the Peregryns in the Dawn Court.”

That earned her a sharper look. He leaned his forearms on the balcony railing, the shadows around him twitching slightly in what might have been surprise.

“You’ve done your research,” he said.

Y/N smiled. Tight, without humor. “Wouldn’t you, if you were walking into a court of fae strangers with enough power to burn cities?”

His silence was answer enough.

She let her gaze drift toward him for a moment longer before adding, “And besides, if I’m going to kill alongside someone, I prefer to know whether they’ll be useful or deadweight.”

Azriel’s mouth twitched again, but he said nothing.

Not yet.

A scream shattered the morning quiet.

Both their heads snapped down toward the street below, just in time to see Cassian scrambling backward behind a thoroughly unamused Nesta. The General was pointing toward the cobblestones in front of the townhouse where a very large, very real wyvern had landed, folding its shimmering wings with calculated menace. Firkhan’s golden eyes locked on Cassian like he was a meal. Or a nuisance.

Possibly both.

Y/N let out a small, rare smirk. “Looks like someone found breakfast.”

And with that, she pushed off the balcony railing and strode back inside, her steps light but unhurried. Azriel followed silently, a shadow at her heels.

They had a war to plan.

By the time they stepped outside, the others had gathered in the courtyard, surrounding the wyvern with varying degrees of wariness and awe.

“He's massive,” Mor said, eyes wide, chin tilted up as she took in the full wingspan. “Like, bigger than a Illyrian war-drake. And shinier. What do you feed him?”

“Illyrians,” Y/N replied without missing a beat.

Cassian let out a scandalized noise. “I knew it.”

“He’s joking,” Feyre added with a half-smile, though it sounded more like a question than a reassurance.

“Am I?” Y/N murmured.

Rhysand’s gaze slid over Firkhan with an assessing sharpness. “He looks like he’s holding together better than I expected, considering the dimensional rift.”

“He’s managing,” Y/N said. “Barely. It’s a miracle he survived the crossing.”

“He’s... beautiful,” Feyre offered, still watching Firkhan as if she was trying to sketch him in her head.

Nesta, standing closer now, spoke softly. “Can I pet him?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, amused. “You want to pet a wyvern?”

Nesta shrugged. “He hasn’t eaten anyone yet.”

From the side, Amren clicked her tongue. “He still might.”

Y/N huffed a quiet laugh and nodded. “Be my guest. He likes boldness.”

Nesta stepped closer, hand extended, slow but sure. Firkhan lowered his massive head, sniffing her fingers, his breath warm and metallic. For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then—he nudged her hand gently.

“He’s called Firkhan,” Y/N said, watching closely. “He’s been with me since before the final war in my world. Saved my life more times than I can count.”

Nesta’s hand moved along the wyvern’s scaled snout. “He’s… calmer than I thought.”

“He likes you,” Y/N replied, surprised at the truth in her own words. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve got steel in you. Rage. Will. Maybe even a little magic that doesn’t play by the rules of this world.”

Nesta’s eyes flicked to hers. “Magic, huh?”

Y/N gave a small smirk. “You seem like you have a little witch within you too, Nesta Archeron.”

Nesta gave a dry laugh. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing someone’s called me.”

A low, possessive sound cut through the moment.

Cassian stepped between them, gently but deliberately, inserting himself between Nesta and Firkhan...and Y/N by extension. “That’s enough fun for the morning,” he muttered, not quite glaring.

Y/N merely raised her brows. “Protective, aren’t you?”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Cassian, I’m fine.”

“You say that now. Wait until he decides you look like lunch.”

Firkhan let out a chuff of breath, clearly unimpressed.

Y/N chuckled and stepped back. “He’s already chosen. You’re the one who keeps acting like prey.”

Before Cassian could reply, Rhysand clapped his hands, voice cutting through the morning fog. “Final checks. If you’re flying, make sure you’re not forgetting anything. Azriel, you’ve got maps. Cassian, try not to start another screaming match with a creature three times your size.”

“Ha ha,” Cassian muttered.

As everyone scattered to gather gear and double-check weapons, Y/N tilted her head toward Nesta. “Come,” she said, gesturing for her to walk alongside Firkhan. “I want to show him someone who isn’t terrified of their own power.”

They moved in silence for a few paces, Nesta still stroking the wyvern’s jaw, until Y/N added quietly, “There’s strength in softness too, you know.”

Nesta’s hand stilled. “You sound like Feyre.”

“I sound like someone who’s lost too many sisters,” Y/N replied. “Hold tight to the ones still breathing.”

Nesta didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

A breath later, Cassian was back, looming beside them with his hand brushing Nesta’s elbow. “We ready?” he asked.

Y/N gave him a slow nod. “Ready as we’ll ever be.”

With one last look at Firkhan, she turned on her heel and strode toward Azriel, who stood waiting with a folded map in his hand and that unreadable expression in his eyes.

Let the hunt begin.

Y/N snatched the map from Azriel’s hand before he could so much as blink.

A collective pause rippled through the group at the sharp sound of paper being pulled taut. She didn’t bother looking at him. Her voice rang out, clear, cutting through the morning air like a blade.

“Now, listen up.”

The conversation and casual banter died instantly. Even Firkhan, coiled on the rooftop like a silent, glimmering sentinel, went still.

They all gathered closer around her. Illyrians, High Fae, and the strange quiet creature that was Amren. Y/N didn’t care what court they were from. What power they wielded. She only cared that they listened.

“As I said,” she continued, spreading the map across the stone garden table with a sweep of her hand, “we’re splitting into three groups of two. Each one will target a different pressure point. Koschei doesn’t leave openings. But like all things that rot, he seeps.”

She tapped her claw-not iron yet, but sharp nonetheless-against the eastern coastline of Prythian.

“Amren. Mor. You’re headed to the tidal cliffs along the Sidra’s curve. We believe one of Koschei’s old mirror-anchors lies buried there, used to siphon spirit energy from the ocean’s pull. If we’re right, breaking it will sever a part of his reach.”

Amren gave a faint smile. “I’ve always liked smashing mirrors.”

Mor only smirked, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Let’s just hope it’s not cursed.”

Y/N ignored them, turning to the next mark: near the border of the human lands, deep in the ruins of an old battlefield.

“Cassian. Nesta. You’re heading to the Forgotten Vale. The blood magic he’s been using, it’s rooted there. That place remembers the dead. There’s something in the soil Koschei is feeding from. You’ll need to burn it clean.”

Nesta’s chin dipped in acknowledgment. Cassian gave a grunt that could have been agreement or displeasure, likely both.

Y/N circled her finger over a third spot, one nearly forgotten in the dense wilds west of Velaris.

“And Azriel and I will be heading into the Wildmere. There's an old forest there, twisted by his influence. His shadows have grown bolder, breeding in the dark. If he’s hiding his heart, the core of his power, it’ll be there. Azriel can track what others miss. I’ll know when we’re close.”

She looked up at last, scanning their faces.

“No one is to speak of this beyond this moment. Koschei has ears in the cracks of reality. This plan doesn’t get whispered about. Not even to your mates.”

Rhysand’s mouth twitched at that. Feyre, wisely, said nothing.

“Any objections?”

There was a beat of silence. Cassian opened his mouth.

Y/N didn’t even look up. Her voice was cold and firm. “No arguments.”

Cassian blinked, about to protest. “I wasn’t even- ”

“No.”

Cassian shut his mouth. Mor snorted. Azriel might’ve smiled, but if he did, it was gone in an instant.

Y/N rolled the map closed with a snap and tucked it back into her satchel.

“Well then,” she said, straightening. “Now that that’s settled- ”

Her eyes gleamed. The wind stirred behind her, brushing her hair back from her face.

“Let’s go kill a god, shall we?”

“Have you ever killed a god before?”

Azriel’s voice broke the morning silence as they walked toward the far side of the garden. Y/N didn’t look at him. Instead, her nails tapped lightly against her thigh, a small, knowing smirk playing at her lips.

“Why? Are you scared?” she asked without turning.

He chuckled softly, a dry edge to his words. “You act like that’s something you do every day.”

She sighed, the weight of a grim past settling in her tone. “No, I haven’t. But an ally of ours did. She killed every god in our universe. She’s now a queen, and they call her the Godskiller.”

Azriel’s guarded expression shifted as curiosity sparked in his eyes. “A queen called Godskiller? That’s not a title you hear every day.”

Y/N met his gaze steadily. “She earned it.”

They reached the clearing where the rift shimmered faintly. Azriel’s eyes dropped to Firkhan, the wyvern pacing with a restless grace.

“Is this thing coming with us too?” he asked, nodding toward the great creature.

Y/N corrected him smoothly. “His name is Firkhan. And yes, he’s coming. I don’t trust your High Lord and Lady one bit. Besides, Firkhan’s senses and ability to circle high above will give us an edge. He can smell death and rot, things even your shadows might miss.”

Azriel considered her words and nodded. “Fair enough.”

Y/N softened her voice and gave a quiet command. “Firkhan, come closer.”

The wyvern’s immense form swooped down beside her, shimmering faintly--still somewhat translucent in this realm.

Azriel glanced back at the pulsing rift. “Ready?”

She nodded once. Azriel inhaled deeply, the familiar shadowy mist beginning to gather around them. With a swift motion, he winnowed them away, the world blurring and folding as shadows swallowed their forms—carrying them instantly to the other side.

The world reassembled around them in fragments of shadow and cold.

Azriel’s boots hit soft earth, damp with rot. A canopy of gnarled, twisted trees loomed above, their blackened branches clawing at the morning sky. The air here felt… wrong. Thicker. Alive, almost buzzing faintly beneath his skin.

This was Wildmere. Or what it had become.

He scanned the surrounding glade, one hand instinctively brushing the hilt of Truth-Teller. The shadows slithered closer to his heels, nervous.

Beside him, Y/N landed with feline ease, already surveying the tree line. Her iron boots didn’t make a sound on the mossy ground.

"Charming," Azriel muttered.

“Better than what I imagined,” she replied flatly, adjusting a strap across her chest that held her curved blade. “I thought it'd reek more.”

“It will,” he said, eyes narrowing on the shifting darkness between the trees. “Give it time.”

A beat of silence. A low, reverberating thrum drifted through the earth like a pulse.

“Let’s move,” Azriel said, stepping forward.

“Wait.”

He turned just enough to glance back at her.

Y/N lifted her chin toward the sky. Then she murmured a string of guttural syllables, words Azriel couldn’t place. Not ancient Fae. Not anything he’d heard before.

High above, a shadow detached from the clouds.

Firkhan.

The wyvern gave a low shriek, answering her call, before rising higher and disappearing into the canopy overhead: circling, watching.

Azriel arched a brow. “That an Ironteeth spell?”

She smirked faintly, brushing past him. “Just a language. One your kind never bothered to learn.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “What’d you tell him?”

“To hunt. To scream if anything smells like rot or fear.”

Azriel fell into step beside her. “And what do we do in the meantime?”

She glanced sideways, expression unreadable. “We walk into a haunted forest ruled by a half-dead god, of course.”

He huffed a soft laugh, surprised by it.

They moved forward, deeper into the Wildmere. And above them, Firkhan circled silently, a predator beneath the rising sun.

They walked in silence for nearly an hour.

The deeper they moved into the forest, the more the light changed. It wasn’t just the thick canopy blocking out the sun, it was the shadows themselves. They clung to bark and roots like oil. And even the wind sounded… wrong. Too soft. Too deliberate. As if the forest was listening.

Azriel had tracked monsters before. He knew the scent of darkness, of unnatural magic. But here, in Wildmere, everything reeked of rot and memory. Of something old, curdled with patience.

Beside him, Y/N didn’t speak. She moved like she belonged here, her steps precise but unhurried, hand never far from the hilt of her blade. Her wyvern, though mostly out of sight, cried out occasionally above the trees--long, distant shrieks that echoed like warnings.

He cast her a glance. “You’ve been quiet.”

Her gaze didn’t shift. “You’ve been brooding.”

Azriel let out a quiet huff. “That’s just my face.”

That earned him the ghost of a smirk. Barely.

He tilted his head. “You don’t seem bothered by this place.”

“I’ve seen worse,” she said simply, ducking under a low-hanging branch.

“Than a forest poisoned by a death god?”

“Have you ever walked through a battlefield of broken gods and still-breathing corpses?” she asked, voice low. “This is peaceful compared to that.”

Azriel didn’t respond. Mostly because he didn’t doubt her. And partly because the way she said it didn’t sound like a boast. Just fact.

Still--he couldn’t help it.

“Why did Manon send you?” he asked quietly. “Not that I’m doubting your skill. But you don’t strike me as someone who gets sent. You strike me as someone who chooses.”

She slowed, just slightly, and he almost regretted the question.

“She didn’t send me,” Y/N said after a moment. “Amren called in a debt. Manon allowed it.”

Azriel studied her profile, the way her jaw tensed when she spoke Amren’s name. “You don’t like being in anyone’s debt.”

“No,” she said. “And I repay them quickly.”

Another cry from above. Firkhan, a low snarl this time--long and deliberate.

Both of them stopped.

Azriel’s shadows rose instantly, curling around his shoulders like smoke. His siphons flared with silent readiness. Beside him, Y/N’s hand had already gone to her weapon.

“East,” she said softly. “Something’s moving.”

He listened. There--just beyond the curve of a withered tree, something shuffled through the underbrush.

Azriel didn’t draw Truth-Teller. Not yet.

Instead, he turned toward her. “You ready?”

Y/N’s eyes glittered. “You tell me, Spymaster. Have you ever killed a god before?”

Azriel allowed a slow smile. “Not yet.”

They moved together, soundless and sharp. Into the dark.

And Wildmere waited.

Azriel's senses were on high alert as they ventured deeper into the Wildmere. The air grew heavier, thick with an unnatural stillness that made every step feel deliberate. The trees, twisted and gnarled, seemed to lean in closer, their bark slick with a strange, iridescent sheen.

"Do you feel that?" Y/N's voice broke the silence, low and cautious.

Azriel nodded, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his blade. "Something's not right."

Without warning, the ground beneath their feet trembled. Azriel's shadows recoiled, sensing the disturbance before he could fully comprehend it. The trees around them began to shift, their trunks bending unnaturally, roots uprooting and twisting in the air like serpents.

"Stay close," Azriel ordered, his voice firm.

But Y/N was already moving, her eyes scanning the shifting landscape. "It's the forest," she said, her tone a mix of awe and wariness. "Koschei's magic is warping it."

Azriel watched as the forest seemed to breathe, the trees pulsating with an eerie rhythm. The air grew colder, and a low hum resonated from deep within the ground.

"We need to find the source," Azriel said, determination setting in.

Y/N nodded, her expression hardening. "Agreed. But we must tread carefully. This place is alive with his influence."

They moved cautiously, the forest around them shifting and changing with every step. The path ahead was unclear, obscured by the ever-changing landscape. Azriel's shadows flickered nervously, reacting to the unnatural magic permeating the air.

As they pressed forward, the trees began to close in, their branches intertwining above, blocking out the light. The air grew thick with a palpable sense of dread.

"We're close," Y/N murmured, her eyes narrowing as she scanned their surroundings.

Azriel felt it too--a presence, ancient and malevolent, watching them from the depths of the forest. He tightened his grip on his blade, ready for whatever lay ahead.

But for now, they could only move forward, deeper into the heart of Wildmere, where Koschei's magic twisted reality itself.

"The deeper we will go, the worse it will get."

Azriel didn't look at her as he led the way, shadows curling around him like arrows, ready to be sent out whenever he commands them to. "How do you know that?"

Y/N only followed him, shifting her clean nails for iron ones "It seems like you know nothing about this place, Shadowsinger, the Wildmere was not always like this. It’s not just forest--it’s memory. What you see here? Twisted bark, blackened moss, silence that’s too loud? This place remembers what it used to be. And Koschei is feeding on that pain."

Azriel’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look back, but his steps slowed slightly. "Memories don’t kill people."

"They do, when a god gives them teeth," she murmured. "You’ll see soon enough. This entire forest is a grieving thing. You walk long enough, it’ll show you what it’s lost. What you’ve lost. Then it’ll ask for a price."

Azriel didn’t respond at first. Shadows slithered along his shoulders, shifting uneasily at her words. But after a pause, he finally said, "And what did it show you?"

Y/N gave a low chuckle--hollow and without humor. "Nothing yet. But it will. The forest always finds a way in."

They walked in silence after that, the mist growing thicker around them, the trees leaning in just slightly more than they had a moment before.

Suddenly, the ground trembled beneath their feet, and a low, mournful wail echoed through the forest. Azriel's shadows recoiled, sensing the disturbance before he could fully comprehend it. Y/N's hand instinctively went to her blade, her posture alert.

From the depths of the forest, a figure emerged: a massive, spectral stag, its form translucent and shimmering with an ethereal glow. Its antlers were adorned with chains of sorrowful faces, each one contorted in silent screams. The creature's eyes, hollow and endless, locked onto them.

Y/N's voice was a whisper, barely audible. "The Forest's Grief."

Azriel's gaze remained fixed on the apparition. "What is it?"

"A manifestation of the Wildmere's sorrow," she replied. "A guardian of lost souls. It feeds on despair and regret."

The stag took a step forward, and the ground beneath them seemed to pulse with each movement. The air grew colder, and the wailing intensified, as if the very forest was mourning.

"We can't kill it," Y/N said, her voice steady despite the growing dread. "We must offer it something, an acknowledgment of its pain."

Azriel's mind raced. What could they offer a creature born of sorrow? What could appease a being that thrived on despair?

The White Stag’s antlers cracked the air like thunder, pure magic slamming into the ground at their feet. Azriel flew back with the force of it, wings snapping wide to steady himself before he hit a gnarled tree trunk. The bark hissed where the Stag’s power had touched it, blackened, rotting.

Y/N stood her ground.

Not because she was unmoved.

Because she was thinking.

Its eyes burned with a light too ancient to belong to this world. Azriel’s shadows shrieked in his head, tangled around his arms and throat like they were trying to drag him away from it. From her.

“It wants something,” he growled, stepping forward, siphons flaring.

Y/N’s iron nails gleamed as she bared her teeth. “No shit.”

Another blast surged toward them. Azriel dove in front of her on instinct, shield raised from his siphons, but the magic slipped through, not touching flesh, but memories. His knees buckled.

A flash, his training pit. Then Elain, eyes wide with something unreadable. Then the Blood Rite, Rhys’s body limp in a river of red.

Gone.

Azriel gasped.

“Azriel.” Y/N grabbed his arm, grounding him. “It’s not attacking the body, it’s taking.”

He staggered upright. “Taking what?”

“Weight. Pain. Regret.” She turned toward the beast, blade now in hand, her iron claws retracted. Not her nails, her steel, that curved obsidian blade she'd claimed from the barrows of her world. “It doesn’t want blood. It wants burden.”

The Stag’s eyes flicked to her, then him. Waiting.

Azriel’s heart pounded. “So give it something.”

“I don’t- ” She hesitated. For a breath. “It’s not a trade. It’s a toll. It wants what we carry.”

Azriel clenched his fists. “I’m not offering it my damn memories.”

Y/N stepped forward, still not lifting her sword. “What if we offer it something false?”

“It’ll know.”

The White Stag stomped once. The ground split open just behind them, roots writhing like serpents. A scream tore from the soil, as if the forest itself was in pain.

“You’re right,” she hissed, glancing back. “We can’t outsmart it.”

The air changed then. Sharp. Electric. The stag charged.

Azriel lunged forward, wings snapping out. “Move!”

But Y/N didn’t run. She pivoted, blade slicing the air, not toward the creature, but downward, across her own palm.

Blood met steel.

Magic pulsed, raw and bright.

“Old gods don’t want lies,” she snarled. “They want truth.”

She threw the blood at its hooves.

The White Stag froze, the spray hitting the ground in front of it, blood soaking the roots. The earth went still.

Azriel stared.

The stag lowered its head.

And stepped aside.

Breathing hard, Y/N turned to him. “We have ten seconds. Run.”

They did.

The woods twisted behind them, the stag’s magic lashing at their heels like wind made of bones. Branches grabbed, thorns sliced, shadows pulled at them, but they made it through.

By the time they stumbled out of the cursed clearing, sweat-slicked and gasping, Azriel’s siphons were flickering low.

Y/N collapsed to one knee, gripping her still-bleeding palm.

Azriel dropped beside her, eyes scanning her face. “You alright?”

She exhaled a slow breath. “That thing fed on grief. If I had offered it any more, I wouldn’t have walked out.”

Azriel’s shadows curled tighter. Protective. Watchful.

“Next time,” he said, voice quiet, “warn me when a mythical forest god might try to eat my soul.”

Y/N’s laugh was hoarse. But real.

“No promises, Shadowsinger.”

Then, as if just realising what he was seeing, Azriel looked at her palm in surprise, "You have blue blood? How- how is that possible?"

Y/N glanced at her palm, still glowing faintly under the streak of cobalt. She arched a brow.

“I don’t know, Spymaster. Maybe because I’m secretly made of frost and moonlight. Or perhaps it’s just a fashion statement in my world.”

Azriel didn’t so much as blink at the sarcasm.

She sighed and flexed her fingers, watching the blood thicken, already beginning to seal. “I’m an Ironteeth witch. We all bleed blue. Has something to do with how we were made. Something ancient. Unnatural, some say.”

He looked vaguely unsettled by that. His eyes dipped again to the wound--only to find the blood already drying, the torn skin knitting back together.

“That was… fast,” he muttered. “My wounds take at least two days to heal. Even with my shadows.”

She scoffed, rising to her feet. “Maybe that’s because I’m not a Fae.”

Behind her, she heard the sound of his wings folding in as he followed, close but never too close. “You got something wrong, at last,” Azriel said, his voice lighter than before. “I’m not a Fae. I’m an Illyrian.”

That gave her pause. She turned her head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him in her periphery. “Is there a difference?”

He shrugged. “Illyrians are winged warriors. Fae in general aren’t born with wings. Or this,” he added, tapping a siphon. “We’re something... rougher. Less polished.”

Y/N kept walking but filed that away.

Why he was explaining it to her, she didn’t know. Why she cared to listen, she knew even less.

But the forest was growing darker around them. The trees closer together, their roots rising like gnarled veins through the soil. Firkhan circled above, a pale, faint shape against the thickening clouds.

She could still feel the residue of the stag’s magic trailing behind them, something old and heavy pressing against her spine like a ghost they hadn’t fully outrun.

“We’ll need to stop soon,” she muttered. “Even I can’t see what’s waiting in that dark.”

Azriel merely nodded, his shadows already fanning out ahead of them like scouts.

And still...still, Y/N found herself glancing at him again. At the siphons, the wings, the strange shadows that whispered things she couldn’t understand.

Not Fae. Not human. Not like anything she’d ever known.

Maybe she wasn’t the only weapon born in the dark.

They had found a small clearing, the air thick with the scent of moss and damp earth. The trees here were spaced just enough to allow a semblance of comfort. Y/N dropped her pack, her senses still alert, scanning the surroundings.

"Seems as good a place as any," she muttered, settling down and beginning to unpack.

Azriel nodded, his gaze lingering on the shadows between the trees. "Stay vigilant."

Just as they began to relax, the ground beneath them trembled. A low, guttural growl resonated from the depths of the forest. Before they could react, the earth split open before them, revealing a massive, serpentine creature with scales that shimmered like obsidian.

Its eyes glowed with an unnatural light, and its maw dripped with venomous saliva. The creature hissed, its tongue flicking out, tasting the air.

Y/N stood, her expression hardening. "An Ironfang Basilisk," she said, her voice steady. "Rare, territorial, and deadly."

Azriel's wings twitched, ready for combat. "Can we fight it?"

Y/N shook her head. "Not unless you want to end up petrified. We need to outwit it."

The basilisk advanced, its massive body coiling and uncoiling with terrifying speed. Y/N's hand went to her belt, drawing her obsidian blade. "Get ready," she whispered.

Azriel's shadows flared, forming a protective barrier around them. "On your mark."

With a swift motion, Y/N hurled a handful of enchanted dust into the air, creating a blinding flash. The basilisk recoiled, momentarily disoriented. Seizing the opportunity, Azriel winnowed behind the creature, striking at its exposed flank.

The basilisk howled in pain, thrashing wildly. Y/N darted forward, her blade flashing as she targeted the creature's eyes. Another strike, and the basilisk let out a deafening screech, its body convulsing before it collapsed, lifeless.

Breathing heavily, Y/N wiped the blood from her blade. "That was too close."

Azriel nodded, his expression grim. "We can't afford to be caught off guard again."

They gathered their belongings, moving deeper into the Wildmere, aware that more dangers lurked in the shadows.

The forest pressed in around them, thick and suffocating, but the small clearing they found was enough to catch their breath--for now. Y/N didn’t dare let them linger longer than thirty minutes. The Wildmere was too dangerous, too unpredictable.

Azriel kept his senses sharp, shadows coiling around him like watchful serpents. He glanced at her as she settled against a gnarled tree root, clearly still on edge despite the brief reprieve.

“Firkhan,” she murmured.

Azriel’s head snapped upward, just as a flicker of movement slipped through the dense branches above. Then, like a ghost wreathed in moonlight, the wyvern descended--Firkhan’s translucent scales shimmering faintly in the dim light, his nearly invisible form momentarily solidifying. His golden eyes caught the glimmers of shadow and leaf, glowing softly.

Y/N leaned against him, her voice low and certain. “Firkhan says he’s sensed something… great. Something close. It’s why we’re here—the heart.”

Azriel watched the creature with quiet awe, the way it moved so effortlessly between worlds, half-seen, half-spirit. He wondered what this beast actually looks like back in his world. His gaze shifted back to Y/N, and something about the way she steadied herself in this hostile place made him respect her even more.

They sat in a tense silence for a few moments before Azriel’s curiosity overcame the quiet.

“So,” he started carefully, “how did you come to know so much about this place? This ‘heart’ we’re searching for?”

Y/N’s eyes flickered with faint amusement. “Let’s just say I’ve had more than my share of dark forests and shadows. I’m sort of a spymaster too, born into war and betrayal. I come from a world where the gods are dead, and their shadows still haunt the earth.”

Azriel’s brow furrowed. “Your world... it’s different from ours.”

She nodded slowly, eyes distant as if recalling a lifetime in a single glance. “Very different. It’s a place where gods once ruled openly, but they were all killed--we have Aelin to thank for that.”

Azriel had no idea who this Aelin was but from the sound of it, she seemed to be quite the powerhouse.

Y/N then looked back at him. "Koschei has been slowly but surely infecting our world too and even though I had fought some of his creations, now I see how much more of a great threat he is in your world."

Azriel nodded his head, then, a question struck his mind. "You said Amren had saved you from a god's mouth. How and when did that happen? How do you even know Amren?"

Y/N smiled. Not a cold or cruel smile, but a real, nostalgic smile as she replied "Yes. It was a very long time ago and honestly, I would rather not speak of it. As for Amren, well, she doesn't just know me. She knows my sisters and my queen, Manon too. It's why Manon even allowed me to come here in the first place, because she trusts her and knew that if Amren calls, it's a serious issue because there is nothing Amren can't handle."

Azriel smirked slightly as his eyes drifted to Firkhan, watching the giant beast lay its enormous wing over Y/N. He hesitated, then found himself sharing a piece of his own story, the weight of his loyalty pressing on his chest. “My High Lord, Rhysand--he’s more than just a ruler to me as well. He’s fierce, loyal, relentless. We’ve fought wars, endured betrayals. He’s the reason I fight… why I keep moving forward.”

Y/N gave a small, approving nod, as if recognizing a familiar kind of pain. “Loyalty’s a rare currency in my world too. Trust is harder to earn than blood. Manon’s trust is the only thing keeping me grounded, reminding me there’s more than just survival.”

The forest around them seemed to close in, the shadows thickening as the conversation took a more personal turn. Their voices dropped lower, sharing fragments of childhoods marked by loss, hardship, and resilience.

“I grew up among shadows,” Y/N said softly, “raised to be a weapon, a spy. Not for glory, but to survive. It’s a hard life, but it teaches you to see what others miss.”

Azriel nodded, feeling the weight of those words. “I was born to serve in the shadows too. But my shadows aren’t just weapons—they’re pieces of me. I use them to protect, to hunt. Rhysand gave me purpose beyond the darkness.”

She tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “And what about your world? Prythian… it’s beautiful, but scarred. What keeps you fighting, if not loyalty?”

Azriel considered that. “Hope. For a future where the shadows don’t own us. Where people can live without fear. Rhysand believes in that future. I do too.”

Y/N smiled faintly, a rare softness crossing her features. “Hope is a dangerous thing. But maybe it’s what keeps the strongest alive.”

Azriel caught the subtle change in her expression--something almost like longing, buried beneath years of hard edges.

But then, Y/N chuckled slowly, "No wonder I knew the Night court would be the most troubled the moment I received the map from Amren."

Azriel raised an eyebrow. "And did you look into the other courts?"

"Of course I did. What kind of an idiot would go into a foreign world without researching everything from there? Personally, I would love to visit the Summer court for a much needed vacation but obviously that won't be happening so..." Y/N sighed rolling her eyes "It hurts my ego to says this but, I am slightly jealous of your world for having these nice courts. Even though I bet they are all posh and pampered."

Azriel couldn't hide his smile as he replied, "Well, if you do ever come back, just make sure to stay far from Autumn. You don't want to mess with them."

Y/N raised a challenging eyebrow. "Oh? and why is that?"

Azriel’s lips twitched into a small smirk. “They’re… complicated. The Autumn Court has its own rules and its own kind of darkness. Subtle, but dangerous. Like a web that traps the unwary.”

Y/N chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Sounds like my kind of place.”

He studied her for a moment, intrigued by how easily she adapted, how she seemed to carry the weight of two worlds without breaking. “You make it sound like you belong everywhere and nowhere at once.”

She met his gaze steadily. “Maybe I do. Or maybe I’m just a survivor.”

They fell into a thoughtful silence, the sounds of the forest pressing in around them--shadows shifting, leaves whispering in the faint breeze.

Azriel finally broke the quiet, “So, what exactly are we looking for in this heart of Koschei’s power? What does it even look like?”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. Something ancient. Something that pulses with his corruption. Maybe a source of his influence. Destroying it might weaken him... or maybe even kill him. Honestly? I have never killed a god before either so this is a first for me too."

Then, she shook her head, sighing in frustration. "I should have asked Aelin for some tips, how on earth does one even kill a god?"

Azriel leaned forward, very intrigued. "Who is Aelin exactly? is she that Godskiller queen you mentioned last night?"

Y/N looked at him and just nodded, seemingly not trusting him at all to give any important information.

Fair enough. Azriel has been doing the same anyway.

The moment stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths and fragile understanding. But Y/N was quick to break the spell.

“Enough,” she said abruptly, rising to her feet, voice firm. Firkhan, as if already knowing his job, snuggled to Y/N one last time before flying back up.

Azriel watched her for a beat longer, curiosity sparking anew. She was more than the witch he thought he’d met. Something about her unsettled and intrigued him in equal measure.

He stood, shadows coiling like eager serpents around his fingers. “Ready?”

She nodded, determination flickering in her eyes. Together, they moved deeper into the Wildmere, stepping quietly into the thickening dark.

The trees grew stranger the deeper they walked—twisting into near-impossible shapes, branches bending down like fingers to scrape at their shoulders. The air turned dense, humming like a living thing. Firkhan circled silently above, his massive form barely visible except when moonlight slipped across the translucent shimmer of his wings.

Y/N felt it before she saw it.

A shift in the world’s breath. A stillness too complete. Even the shadows underfoot recoiled, Azriel’s included.

“Something’s wrong,” she murmured.

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter. “You feel it too?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, her steps slowed as they entered a clearing.

At first, it looked… harmless. A meadow nestled between craggy hills, dotted with faintly glowing mushrooms and blanketed in tall, silver-bladed grass. Too quiet. Too still.

Then-

A mirror rose from the ground.

Seven feet tall. No frame. No stand. Just a hovering pane of glimmering glass, and the faint shimmer of a thousand reflections dancing across its surface, not theirs. Strangers. Dead things. Nightmares.

Azriel stepped slightly in front of her. “Is that…?”

But Y/N had already stopped. Her jaw set.

“The Mirror of Maw,” she said flatly.

“You know what it is?”

“It’s not from your world. Or mine. It was pulled through a rift, I think. I’ve only seen a drawing. They say it shows your deepest fear… and then tries to break you with it.”

Azriel’s wings shifted. “Break you how?”

As if in answer, the glass rippled, and his mother’s face appeared, beaten and bloodied. Behind her, two Illyrian boys, children, chained to stone.

Azriel staggered back a step, inhaling sharply.

Y/N didn’t flinch. She knew it was coming.

Then the glass turned again, this time to her.

Not Manon. Not Asterin. Not even the Valg.

Her reflection turned into her own face—wild-eyed, monstrous, fully shifted. Alone. Blood-soaked. Surrounded by the fallen bodies of her coven. Her sisters. Manon. All dead. By her hand.

She blinked.

Azriel hissed, “We need to destroy it.”

“No,” she said immediately. “If we do, it’ll shatter outward. The shards will reflect us infinitely and... trap us.”

He turned his head sharply. “Then what?”

“We have to walk past it.”

Azriel stared. “Seriously?”

Y/N shifted her nails into long, gleaming iron claws. “Don’t look into it. Not directly. Don’t let it know you’re afraid.”

Azriel’s wings flexed, his face pale. “It already knows.”

“Then pretend.” She took a step forward.

The ground beneath them twisted, pulling them in different directions. Illusions bloomed, not just in the mirror, but in the air, hovering projections of past sins and private nightmares. The air sang with the sound of screams not their own.

Azriel clenched his jaw and followed, shadows thick around him, muttering, “What kind of god builds things like this?”

“The kind that never wanted to die,” she whispered.

They moved forward. Step by step.

Each footfall brought a new vision. Azriel gritted his teeth against a sight of his brothers drowning in tar. Y/N fought against a phantom image of Manon turning her back on her.

But then-

The mirror lashed out.

Not with glass, but with reflection. It warped into a massive beast of pure light and shadow, built from every fear it had shown them. It struck like a viper.

Y/N lunged with a snarl, dodging the strike and raking iron claws across its neck. The illusion beast didn’t bleed. It cracked like glass, shrieked like a violin.

Azriel shouted her name, his shadows tangled with the form, but they passed through.

“Don’t fight it like a warrior,” Y/N shouted. “Fight it like it’s a lie.”

Azriel paused, narrowed his eyes, then did the unthinkable.

He closed them.

And drove his knife into his own thigh.

The pain was real. Grounding.

The creature paused.

Y/N followed his lead, slicing her palm with her iron claws, letting the blue blood spill onto the grass. Her breath steadied.

“We are real,” she growled. “You’re not.”

The mirror-beast began to shake.

Then, it shattered in a silent implosion, collapsing into a pool of starlight, then into nothing at all.

Y/N and Azriel stood in the silence, panting, bleeding.

She smirked faintly. “Creative. I’ll give the bastard that.”

Azriel wiped his blade, glancing down at her hand. “Blue blood again.”

She raised a brow. “And you didn’t faint this time.”

He gave a breathless chuckle. “Progress.”

But they both knew, the forest was watching.

And the next trial was already waiting.

By the time the next challenge came, they were ready for it.

After the Mirror of Maw, neither Y/N nor Azriel had let their guard down again. Every step through Wildmere became a calculated risk. They learned quickly that brute strength wouldn’t be enough. This place demanded wit, patience, and endurance.

One moment, they found themselves navigating a river that whispered their greatest regrets in voices not their own—a siren-like hallucination that tried to lure them beneath its surface with promises of absolution. Another time, they were stalked by phantom duplicates of themselves, twisted versions that mirrored every move seconds before they made it—forcing them to fight with instinct instead of thought.

Once, they even found themselves in a grove where time reversed for everything but them—fruit rotting and unrotting on the branch, rain falling upward, Firkhan caught in a loop above them until Y/N used a sliver of her iron blade to slash the air and break the loop’s hold.

But none of it was enough to bring them closer to the heart.

They’d pushed through challenge after challenge, but the twisted forest still swallowed the path ahead in shadows. And worse—Firkhan hadn’t smelled anything yet. No pulse of dark magic, no sulfur, no blood-thick scent of Koschei.

The wyvern had descended three times, enormous wings stirring the trees like thunder. Each time, he’d only blinked those golden eyes and shook his head once before vanishing back into the sky, invisible against the dark clouds.

And now—

“I’m way past the time Manon had assigned for me.”

Y/N’s voice came low, clipped, frustration curling in every syllable as she leaned against Firkhan’s warm side. The wyvern lay curled in a hollow of moss and stone, his translucent wings tucked close to his body like an exhausted sentinel. His presence was the only steady thing left in the wild.

Azriel stood a few feet away, checking the perimeter, his shadows flicking with agitation.

“She’ll understand,” he said eventually.

Y/N scoffed. “You don’t know her.”

“No,” he said, turning slightly. “But I know what it’s like to feel like you’re failing someone who trusted you.”

That shut her up. For a breath.

Then- “We’re going in circles, Azriel. This place, this whole cursed forest, is playing with us.”

His jaw clenched. “And we keep playing back. That’s the job.”

“Is it?” She pushed off Firkhan’s side, iron nails catching the moonlight. “Because I didn’t come here to get toyed with by a dead god’s leavings. I came here to destroy something.”

“So did I,” he said, voice sharp now. “But stomping around like you’re going to slice your way through a thousand-year-old maze of magic isn’t going to get us there any faster.”

She met his stare. “What would you rather I do? Sit here and braid flowers into Firkhan’s mane while we wait for Koschei to start breathing down your High Lord’s neck?”

His wings flared slightly behind him. “I’m saying you’re not the only one who wants to end this.”

They stood like that for a moment—breathing hard, not from exertion, but from restraint.

Y/N turned away first. Ran a hand through her hair. “I just... I don’t fail. I can’t afford to.”

Azriel’s voice came softer. “You think I can?”

She looked at him then. Really looked.

His face wasn’t unreadable this time. The tension in his jaw. The shadows pulled close to his shoulders like a shield. He was just as tired. Just as haunted.

A long silence passed between them.

Then, Y/N sighed, letting her claws retract.

She leaned back against Firkhan, whose massive head nudged her gently, a low rumble of reassurance vibrating through the stone beneath them.

Azriel sat down beside her a moment later, silent.

Neither of them spoke again for a long while.

Only the forest did--breathing, pulsing, watching. Waiting.

And somewhere beyond it all… the heart still beat.

Waiting to be found.

Y/N turned her head to him. "You seem frustrated."

Azriel sighed letting out an angry growl "I have been trying to reach Rhysands mind, to talk to him, talk to anyone at this point, but it hasn't been working and I don't understand why."

Y/N looked straight ahead. "It won't work, so don't tire yourself out."

Azriel looked at her in confusion. "And why is that?"

Y/N didn't look at him at first. She simply leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as the low hum of Firkhan’s breathing rumbled behind them like distant thunder.

Then she said, voice level, “Because Wildmere was designed to be a prison. Not just for creatures or for gods, but for anything that might try to enter or leave without permission. Communication magic, winnowing, tracking, it all dies here. Gets eaten by the forest.”

Azriel stared at her. “You knew?”

She gave a small shrug, iron nails lightly tracing the ridges of her palm. “I suspected. The way the air feels… it’s thicker. Charged. Whatever magic was used to curse this place is ancient and primal. Older than either of our worlds can probably remember.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me that earlier?”

Now she looked at him, her gaze flat and unapologetic. “What would you have done? Turned back? Panicked? Told Rhys to call it off?” A pause. “We’ve made it this far. Would knowing you couldn’t call home have changed how you fought through the last three trials?”

Azriel opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Because no,it wouldn’t have. Not really.

“I’ve survived in places where even thoughts aren’t safe,” she continued. “You adapt. You stop relying on help that isn’t coming. You move forward.”

A beat of silence.

“You really don’t trust anyone, do you?” he said, not accusing,just observing.

Y/N gave a soft huff that might’ve been a laugh. “Trust is expensive. I spend it rarely.”

Azriel looked away, shadows curling tighter around him as if shielding him from something unsaid.

Firkhan snorted, shifting beside them, his massive head lowering into the moss.

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you,” she added after a moment, more quietly. “I just didn’t see the point of wasting breath on something neither of us can change.”

Azriel finally nodded, slow and grim. “Then I won’t waste breath on it either.”

They both sat in silence again, the moment heavier now, not angry, just worn. Both aware of how alone they truly were in this cursed, forsaken place.

Finally, Y/N murmured, almost to herself, “If he really buried his heart here… then he meant for no one to ever leave with it.”

Azriel’s eyes glinted in the dim light. “Then we’ll make him regret underestimating us.”

Y/N’s smirk was faint, but there. “Damn right, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel didn't know where this came from but it seemed like his mouth didn't listen to his brain as he blurted out "Do you have a mate?"

Y/N looked at him, wide-eyed, and then bursted out laughing.

Azriel was confused. "What?"

Still chuckling, Y/N looked at him once more. "We are witches. We don't have any mates."

Now it was Azriel whose eyes widened. "What- I mean...how? Doesn't everyone have a mate?"

Firkhan’s head lifted slightly, golden eyes glinting in the dark. He let out a low rumble that raised the hair on their arms.

Y/N stood, brushing moss from her trousers. “Enough talk. Time’s up.”

So she didn't like this one. Maybe this was too intimate of a matter for her. Or maybe she thought he didn't need to know this information.

Azriel didn't push, he rose beside her. “Let’s move.”

And once again, the forest swallowed them whole.

Suddenly, Y/N stopped and turned around to look at Azriel, eyes wide, as if she just realized something.

Azriel's brow lifted in suspicion. "What?"

Y/N, opened her mouth, eyes lost somewhere else as if she wasn't even talking to him.

Suddenly, Y/N stopped mid-step and spun around to face Azriel, her eyes wide, too wide. Not with fear, but realization.

Azriel’s brows furrowed, instantly alert. “What?”

But Y/N didn’t answer right away. Her gaze wasn’t even focused on him. It was distant, like she wasn’t seeing the twisted forest around them but something deeper, some hidden truth unfurling at last.

Her lips parted, and when she spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “We’re being played.”

Azriel blinked. “What do you mean?”

She began pacing in a small circle, muttering mostly to herself. “We’ve been moving through challenge after challenge: endless, brutal. And they haven’t lessened. Not once. If anything, they’ve become more unpredictable. More desperate. But what if…”

Azriel stepped closer, shadows crawling silently across the ground. “Y/N.”

She looked up sharply, something wild and sharp behind her eyes. “What if the heart isn’t a place?”

Azriel stared at her. “Explain.”

Y/N exhaled shakily, gathering her thoughts, the pieces slotting together. “Koschei’s power is rooted in rot, decay, illusions. We assumed the heart was hidden deep within the Wildmere, that all this--the challenges, the madness--was just a wall we had to break through. But what if that’s the lie?”

Azriel tilted his head. “You think the heart is… everywhere?”

“No,” she said slowly, her voice gaining certainty, “I think the heart is within the challenges. Part of them. A piece hidden in every test, every horror we’ve faced. It’s like we’ve been walking through pieces of his soul.”

Azriel ran a hand through his hair, processing. “That’s why it’s been getting stronger, more chaotic. We’ve been stepping closer each time, not geographically, but… spiritually.”

“Exactly.” Y/N looked around at the ancient trees, the corrupted mist, the way the earth pulsed subtly beneath them. “This forest, it is him. It listens. It watches. We’re not searching for a location. We’re awakening it.”

Azriel let that settle for a moment. “Then what do we do next?”

She turned in a slow circle, iron nails flexing. “We speak directly to it.”

Azriel narrowed his eyes. “Koschei?”

Y/N smirked darkly. “Oh, he’s listening. Has been from the start. I say… we stop playing by his rules.”

Then she raised her voice, sharp and clear, her tone cutting through the forest like a blade:

“I know what you are. And I’m done dancing for you.”

Azriel’s grin was slow, dark, and full of promise. “Now that sounds like a plan.”

From the trees above, a low vibration answered--something old and furious, stirred at last.

And as if Koschei had been waiting for this realization all along, the scenery shifted, pulling Y/N and Azriel into somewhere else entirely.

The forest screamed.

Not with sound,but with movement. The trees began to shift.

Azriel had seen countless battles, had faced terrors that would break the spine of any ordinary warrior,but nothing had prepared him for this. For the way the earth itself groaned beneath their boots, how roots curled like skeletal fingers to drag them under, how the sky had turned a deep, bruised violet above their heads.

They had found the heart.

Or… it had found them.

Firkhan roared from above, his massive body circling violently in the sky, wings slicing through the thickening clouds. The wyvern’s translucent body was flickering between visible and invisible, the magic in the air distorting even him.

Azriel’s shadows lashed out, trying to scout ahead, but they shrieked back into him,blinded, confused.

Y/N stood beside him, her eyes blazing silver. Her iron claws were already out, gleaming. “It’s here,” she breathed. “He knows.”

And then-

The forest exploded.

Not with fire. Not with weapons. But with bodies. They came from the trees. Not beasts, not soldiers. Specters. Hollow things made of bark and blood, faces frozen in silent screams. They didn’t speak. They didn’t breathe. They simply lunged.

Azriel met the first with a flash of his blades, shadows curling up around his arms like a second skin. He fought silently, efficiently, but even he felt the press of chaos. Every time one was cut down, another took its place. They didn’t bleed. They didn’t die easily.

Beside him, Y/N fought like a creature out of myth. Her claws shredded through the phantoms, her movements fast, brutal. And when one got too close, she snapped with her iron teeth, tearing through bark like it was wet paper. But for each one she felled, more came.

"This is endless!" Azriel snarled, kicking a phantom back into a tree, only for it to melt into mist and reform again.

“They’re not meant to be beaten,” Y/N hissed, spinning and driving her claws into one of the specters. “They’re meant to wear us down.”

A blast of dark magic burst from a tree’s core ahead. The bark cracked and peeled back, revealing the heart. Not a heart of flesh—but a pulsing core of black and gold light. It glowed like molten metal, rhythmically beating in the trunk of a tree that stretched impossibly high.

Y/N’s eyes locked onto it. “That’s it.”

But then, the air grew cold. So cold, even Azriel’s Illyrian blood shuddered.

Koschei.

His presence slid over them like a serpent winding around a neck. He didn’t appear physically--just a voice, low and ancient, curling through the trees.

“You are too late. The forest is mine.”

Y/N staggered, clutching her temple as his voice clawed through her mind. Azriel grabbed her, pulling her behind him with one arm while shadows leapt to shield them.

“I’ve got you,” he growled.

“No,” she rasped, pushing away from him, blood now dripping from her nose. “We need to end it. Now.”

She stumbled forward,right into the path of one of the phantoms. It slammed its twisted arm across her ribs and threw her into a tree.

“Y/N!”

Azriel moved before he could think, slicing through two specters and diving toward her. She was curled at the base of the tree, blood blooming from her side, gasping through clenched teeth.

He dropped to his knees beside her, shadows wrapping around them both. “Don’t move. Don’t- ”

“It’s cracked,” she hissed. “My ribs- ”

Azriel didn’t let her finish. His hands pressed to her sides, shadows curling protectively. “Stay down. I’ll hold them off.”

“You don’t have time- ” she gasped.

But Azriel had already stood, wings flaring wide, blades glowing with shadows that roared to life.

The sky above them split, Firkhan descending like death on wings.

And still, the heart pulsed.

Still, Koschei whispered.

Still, the battle raged.

And somewhere in that madness, Azriel made a promise, not aloud, but in the marrow of his bones.

She would not fall here.

Not in his watch. Not in Koschei’s cursed forest.

Not when he had anything left to give.

Azriel’s wings unfurled fully, casting long, looming shadows over the shattered ground beneath them. Firkhan roared above, his distorted, flickering form cutting through the bruised sky like a living thunderstorm. The phantoms surged closer, an endless tide of twisted bark and blood, their silent screams a chorus of despair.

Azriel’s blades sang through the air, shadows coiling like serpents with every strike. He moved with lethal grace, a dark storm in human form, but even he knew brute force alone wouldn’t shatter this nightmare. The heart, pulsing with molten black and gold, throbbed in the center of the ancient tree, a beacon and a curse. It wasn’t just power, it was the very soul of Koschei’s corruption.

Y/N’s breaths came shallow and ragged at his side, blood darkening her iron claws and the forest floor beneath her. Azriel’s sharp gaze flickered between her and the heart, determination hardening his jaw. I have to end this. For both of us.

The specters pressed in tighter, relentless as the dark tide. Azriel’s shadows whipped out, forming a swirling barrier that absorbed phantom claws and bark-like shards, buying precious seconds. He knelt beside Y/N briefly, fingers brushing her cheek with a tenderness that belied the fury in his eyes.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, voice steady but fierce. “I’ll end this. I promise.”

She managed a weak nod, her silver eyes flashing once more with that fierce, untamed light. You always do, they seemed to say.

Azriel surged to his feet, wings beating the heavy, cursed air. He pushed forward, moving as close to the heart as he dared, the twisted bark of the tree pulsing beneath his fingertips. The core radiated an unbearable heat, not warmth, but something corrosive, devouring from within.

Koschei’s voice slithered through the trees again, low and venomous, “Foolish shadow. You think you can grasp what is eternal? What I have bound in blood and bone?”

Azriel ignored the whispers, focusing every fiber of his being on the heart. He reached deep into the shadow realm, calling to the ancient power of his bloodline, the shadows that were more than darkness, but living essence, sharp as blades and deep as night.

With a roar that shook the forest, Azriel’s blades ignited in spectral shadows, glowing with a fierce light that cut through the murk and decay. He struck the heart, first once, then twice, each blow sending waves of black and gold rippling outward.

The forest screamed in agony.

The phantoms faltered, howling in silent rage as their source was wounded. But the heart fought back, tendrils of shadow and rot lashing out, trying to bind Azriel in eternal darkness.

He faltered for a moment, pain biting deep as the corruption tried to seep into his soul. But Azriel’s resolve only sharpened, this was not just a battle of strength, but will.

Summoning every shred of shadow and steel, he drove both blades deep into the core, channeling his fury and hope. The heart shattered in a cascade of molten shards, exploding into a storm of blinding light and shadow.

The forest convulsed, roots recoiling, the corrupted mist dissipating like smoke on a wind long overdue.

Koschei’s voice broke, fractured and fading, “This isn't the end, shadowsinger...”

Azriel stood panting, wings folding back slowly, the oppressive weight lifting from the air. Around them, the twisted trees began to straighten, the pulsating heartbeat of corruption silenced at last.

Y/N groaned softly beside him, pain etched deep but the fire in her eyes undiminished.

Azriel knelt, reaching for her again, a tired but triumphant smile tugging at his lips.

“We did it,” he said quietly, voice thick with exhaustion and relief. “It’s over.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the forest breathed free.

And Azriel, shadowed and scarred but unbroken, swore he’d never let darkness claim them again.

Azriel sank to his knees beside Y/N, his breath heavy but steady despite the toll the battle had taken. The pulsating black-and-gold heart was no more, but the wounds it left behind were still fresh, both on the land and on them. Y/N’s breaths were shallow, each one a sharp stab of pain radiating from her cracked ribs and the blood staining her side.

He shifted his cloak gently, carefully trying not to jostle her too much. Shadows coiled around his hands, soft and cool, weaving delicate threads of healing energy. It was a power Azriel had kept mostly for defense, but now, with grim determination, he called upon it to mend what the heart’s corruption had broken.

“Hold still,” he murmured, voice low and firm. The shadows pressed against Y/N’s skin, knitting flesh and bone together like a masterful seamstress, sealing cracks in her ribs and staunching the bleeding. The pain didn’t vanish instantly--far from it--but it dulled, becoming a dull ache beneath the magic’s careful touch.

Y/N’s silver eyes flickered open, meeting his with a spark of gratitude mingled with exhaustion. “You… you always come through,” she rasped.

Azriel gave a tired, crooked smile. “I’m not done yet. You’re too important to lose.”

He eased her into his arms, careful and protective, letting his wings envelop them both like a shadowed sanctuary. The forest around them was already beginning to heal, corrupted leaves wilting and new green buds pushing through the undergrowth, nature reclaiming what had been twisted.

“We need to get out of here,” Azriel said quietly. “Stay with me. I’ll carry you.”

Y/N nodded, eyes fluttering closed as the healing shadows continued their work, easing the sharpness in her chest.

Azriel rose, wings spreading wide to shield them from any lingering threats. His steps were steady but swift, moving through the forest with the grace of a predator, the shadows parting before him like a living cloak.

Every heartbeat was a reminder--this victory was hard-won, but survival meant moving forward. And he would carry Y/N through whatever came next.

As the forest’s twisted grip loosened behind them, Azriel’s resolve hardened. He wouldn’t just survive--he’d make sure the darkness they’d faced never rose again.

Once they were out, Azriel winnowed them back. The familiar air of the House of Wind wrapping around him like a balm after the suffocating, corrupted forest. He carried Y/N carefully in his arms, her weight lighter than he expected, though the bloodstains on her side told a harsher truth. The others were gathered in the main hall, the tension in the room thick—like the air before a storm.

Mor and Amren stood near the tall windows, exchanging hurried words. Nesta and Cassian leaned against the hearth, faces drawn and exhausted. Rhys and Feyre were by the stairs, eyes sharp, concern etched deep.

The moment they entered, voices rose in a chorus.

“You took so long,” Cassian’s voice was rough but relieved.

Azriel’s gaze flicked to him. “How long?”

Cassian’s grim smile faltered. “Five entire days.”

Feyre stood up from the couch, coming closer to Azriel. "We've all been trying to reach you but we couldn't get an answer."

Azriel sighed, "It was the damn forest, the air in the, it's magic, I couldn't reach any of you either because of that."

A murmur rippled through the room. Y/N stirred slightly, getting down but still leaning against Azriel for support. He stiffened but didn’t pull away.

Rhys narrowed his eyes, stepping forward. “You’re injured. Are you alright?”

Y/N’s silver eyes flickered open. “I’m fine,” she said, voice steady but faint.

She looked at Amren and asked, “When can you open the portal again? I need to go back home.”

The room quieted at her words.

Azriel’s mouth opened, then blurted out before he could stop himself: “Do you really?”

Everyone turned, surprised by his tone.

He cleared his throat, voice rough. “I mean, you are injured after all.”

Y/N gave a small, wry smile. “Manon will be both worried and pissed. She already is. I’m way past the assigned time. I bet they all think I’m dead by now.”

Amren’s eyes glinted. “Give me a few hours.”

Y/N nodded, easing down onto the couch Feyre offered. Azriel never left her side, standing like a silent guardian.

Tea was brought, warm and fragrant, a sharp contrast to the cold metal taste of battle still lingering in his mouth.

The group settled, the fire crackling softly as they began to recount what had transpired in their separate quests. Mor and Amren spoke of the tidal cliffs, how the mirror-anchor shimmered beneath the waves, how the ocean roared with a power Koschei had tried to steal. Nesta and Cassian told of the Forgotten Vale’s haunted soil, the blood magic that bled from the earth itself, and how fire had cleansed the curse—though at a heavy cost.

Azriel’s mind wandered, watching Y/N carefully as she sipped her tea, the faintest flicker of pain crossing her face when she moved too sharply. He remembered the forest’s pulse, the way the heart had throbbed like a living wound beneath the bark, and the relentless onslaught of phantoms that had threatened to tear them apart. He thought of the shadows he’d summoned, not just to fight but to heal, to hold her together when the world had tried to unravel her.

In the quiet moments between their words, Azriel’s thoughts circled around a single, stubborn truth: they had survived, but the cost was far from over. The forest’s corruption was gone, but Koschei’s reach remained—fractured, yes, but dangerous.

"So, I guess my debt to Amren is paid at last."

And Y/N was leaving.

Azriel shouldn't care, after all, she did come here for the mission in the first place. But.... the moments they shared, the conversations they had....Azriel couldn't ignore that. His interest, his curiosity kept rising when he looked at her. She was everything and more that they said about her, yes. But she was also so different. He still had so many questions, so many conversations that he wanted to have with her.

Amren returned then, sharp-eyed and satisfied. “Alright, it’s ready.”

Y/N exhaled through her nose. Relief, maybe. Or weariness. Or regret.

They all followed her into the garden behind the House, bathed in the violet hue of the setting sun. The Sidra shimmered below, and the distant wind caught in the high pines.

Firkhan was waiting, perched like a statue of obsidian and smoke on the cliff edge. The wyvern’s translucent wings had returned to full visibility, glittering faintly in the fading light. He huffed once as Y/N approached, nuzzling her side gently--carefully--where she was still bruised. She placed a hand against his snout, murmuring something in her own language. Something old and sacred.

Y/N exhaled through her nose. Relief, maybe. Or weariness. Or regret.

Cassian, arms crossed but expression oddly soft, offered a nod. “You ever want to visit again, I’ll save you a sparring spot.”

Y/N smirked, the silver in her eyes brightening. “Only if you promise not to cry when I flatten you.”

Nesta arched a brow. “She’s serious.”

“I believe her,” Cassian muttered, half to himself.

Feyre stepped forward next. “Thank you, for what you did. What you gave. It wasn’t your war, but you fought like it was.”

Y/N inclined her head. “It became my war the moment I stepped into that forest.”

Rhys gave a small, approving smile. “And you walked out of it.”

“Barely,” Azriel murmured under his breath, but she heard it.

Amren was last. She held out a small, shining obsidian coin- an anchor token, Azriel recognized. Rare, dangerous, used for long-distance magical travel when gates were unstable.

“Send my regards to Manon,” Amren said. “Tell her I haven’t forgotten that bottle of blackfire she owes me.”

Y/N’s grin returned, sharp and wild. “She’ll pretend she has. But I’ll make sure she doesn’t.”

Amren gave a snort and turned, already bored with sentiment.

Y/N ran her hand along Firkhan’s scales once more, then turned to Azriel. The others, sensing something in the air, quietly stepped back. Shadows deepened in the corners of the garden.

He hadn’t moved.

“You’ll be alright?” he asked, voice low.

“I’ve survived worse.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

A pause. Her silver gaze met his. “I’ll be alright,” she said again, gentler this time.

Azriel nodded, but his jaw was clenched. There were still a thousand questions clawing in his throat. Not about war. Not about magic. About her.

She studied him for a long moment. “You could visit, you know.”

He blinked. “I- what?”

Y/N shrugged one shoulder, casual and not at all casual. “We’ve got plenty of cursed forests too. Would make you feel right at home.”

His mouth lifted in the barest smile. “And a brooding spymaster with too many shadows won’t draw attention?”

“I think we’d survive the scandal.”

Another silence, but not uncomfortable.

Then she looked to the sky. “Firkhan’s ready. And… they’ve waited long enough.”

Azriel’s hand twitched at his side. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t stop her.

But gods, he wanted to.

“Y/N,” he said quietly, one last time.

She turned to look at him over her shoulder.

His shadows curled around his boots, uncertain.

“I meant what I said. Back in the forest. I wasn’t going to let you fall.”

Something flickered in her gaze. “I know.”

And then she stepped away. Climbed onto Firkhan’s back with the ease of a queen mounting a throne. No crown. No farewell.

Just fire in her blood and steel in her spine.

Firkhan launched into the air with a blast of wind and light, his wings cutting through the violet dusk as they entered the portal and vanished completely.

Azriel watched until they were gone.

Until the stars blinked open, silent and still.

And still he stood there.

Because the thing he wouldn’t say--the truth clawing quietly beneath his skin--was that he hadn’t expected to care.

Not for the shadows she had walked through.

Not for the strength behind her teeth.

Not for the ghost of her laughter when no one was listening.

But he did.

And now she was gone.

She came into my world like a storm with no warning. And left just as fast. But storms leave marks behind. And something tells me… this isn’t the end of our story. Not yet.

[moonlitstoriess]

Your writing is so good I had to send the fic to my friend who has no idea what ACOTAR is 🫶

Oh damnnn that is such a huge compliment, I feel so honored lol. Thank you, I hope your friend enjoyed it as well🥹🤍

[moonlitstoriess]

How have you been? ❤️

Heyy! Thank you so much for the question, I hope you’re doing great <33 These past few months have been crazy and as a result all my energy has been depleted lol. Honestly, just getting back to writing is whats helping me get back to myself and whats more important is that I can finally read my new books in peace 🤭

I’m working on a few things for you guys now so hopefully I will release them one by one soon😚🫶🏻